


A Woman of Spirit

by AMarguerite



Category: Mansfield Park - Jane Austen, Persuasion - Jane Austen, Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Crossover, Espionage, F/F, F/M, Gen, Napoleonic Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mary Crawford finds herself trapped in London on the eve of the French invasion, Lady Hamilton recruits her to help spy on the French forces. For all Mary's knowledge of the rears and vices of admirals in the draconic aerial corps, she must now match her wits against marshals and Celestials-- a much more dangerous proposition than even she realized. Mansfield Park/ Victory of Eagles crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mansfield Park technically takes place during 1808-9 but I hope I will be forgiven for pretending it takes place from 1805-6 so that Mary and Henry would be freely moving around in London during the invasion, and so that Anne and Mary had engagements that didn’t come off at around the same time in 1806. I’ve also flubbed Anne’s timeline a little. I know she never went to London and that Louisa Musgrove would still be in school in 1808, but, since this is an AU where Napoleon successfully landed at Dover with an albino Celestial, the timeline is wonky enough that these little liberties hopefully will be forgiven. (Also, coming to you unbeta'd! Apologies for any typos. Let me know and I'll fix them.)

1808

 

The French Army had nearly reached London, when Henry Crawford saw fit to visit his two sisters. Both of them were out of humor with him, and frightened at the changing reports that had first called an invasion an impossibility, then a probability, and then, at last, a certainty.

“Henry, where have you been?” asked Mrs. Grant. “We have been packed this hour and longer, and the stable hand was obliged to put Mary’s horse into its stall again.”

“I had thought you might leave in Dr. Grant’s chaise,” said Henry, hanging up his hat.

“Dr. Grant does not keep his own carriage,” said Mary. “I do not blame you for forgetting-- the whole city is at sixes and sevens-- but we poor creatures are dependent upon your barouche and your escort. All the male servants of age have been press-ganged into a militia.”

“The barouche I can provide, but the escort I cannot.”

“What?” cried Mrs. Grant, in alarm.

Mary reminded him, “We can neither of us drive a baroche, Henry, nor do I think it at all practicable for two women alone to try and drive up the North Road to Everington, while the French Army can, according to the latest gossip, march fifty miles in a day.”

“You must both ride then,” said Henry, “for I am staying in London.”

“To do what?” asked Mary, considerably startled.

“To fight.”

“Henry! You! A soldier!”

“You cannot see Captain Henry Crawford of the 10th Foot?”

“Indeed I cannot!”

“Perhaps Captain Henry Crawford of HMS Endeavor--”

“No indeed!”

“Or of the dragon Nell Gwyn?”

Mary could not laugh or quip; all her polished shields fell away. “Henry,” said she, with dawning horror, “what have you done?”

Henry took off his overcoat to display an ill-fitting uniform in an aviator’s green.

Mrs. Grant was so shocked she burst into tears to relieve her feelings.

Henry immediately saw he had trespassed and said, with a little too much lightness, “Well, it is done. The Admiral is too injured from Napoleon’s initial landing to go aloft. They have appointed a fellow named Saunderson to be Admiral in his place, and I am to captain dear old Nell.”

“Surely you can be as great a libertine outside of the Corps as in it,” said Mary, bitterly. “Why have you done this Henry? My greatest fear has ever been that you should grow up to be the Admiral, and you so often assured me that would never be the case!”

“Am I married, dear Mary? No indeed, and in that respect I shall never be the Admiral.”

"It was not just his treatment of our aunt that made me hate Hill Street,” said Mary, “but the total want of concern for others-- God knows I have seen it in myself often enough, and feared it in you, but this, this--”

“You malign me, Mary. Dragons take on captains within families, and they cannot risk the loss of a Regal Copper when Napoleon and his army are actually on our shores."

In worrying so much over the bad lessons Henry had picked up from the Admiral, Mary had not considered Henry would pick up any of the good. That Henry, inconsistent Henry, dedicated only to the pursuit of his own pleasure, should give up all comfort to fight for king and country--

This defied credulity. Mary recalled Henry's passing wish, two years ago, to be a naval officer to impress Fanny Price, his pursuit of Maria Rushworth, nee Bertram, only after Maria injured his pride by ignoring him at parties--

Henry had ever valued his comfort and his liberty, but it seemed his sense of self-importance took precedent.

If this Saunderson had not flattered Henry, had not impressed upon Henry that no one else could possibly so something full of such danger and daring, Mary would wear last season's court gown to a picnic. It was Henry lost in the Romantic ideals of the age, divorced from a reality that had always flattered Henry’s consequence and never required him to accept any negative consequences of his decisions.

Indeed, it fell to Mary and Mrs. Grant to face all the bad: they were stranded in London, on the eve on French invasion, with no real option for escape. Even if they did take to their horses and gallop hell for leather along the King’s Highway to Everington, the chances of being unmolested upon the road were slim.

“I have come to take my leave of you,” said Henry. “I am to Woolwich for orders. They are in desperate straits. They have made a captain of an Oriental fellow with twelve feral dragons, and they are freeing that traitor Laurence in order to have his Celestial. You must see I am duty-bound to go. Nell is a Regal Copper and cannot be spared.”

‘Nell could not stop the sinking of the Goliath or the landing of Napoleon’s forces,’ thought Mary. ‘I do not think she will be as useful as you make her out to be.’

But when she thought of saying this aloud, she found she could not; Henry was saying, importantly, “We all must make sacrifices while Bony is at our door.”

Neither Mrs. Grant nor Mary could say anything. Indeed, to voice their own unhappiness could be seen as unpatriotic. It was quite like Henry, Mrs. Grant later, bitterly reflected, to not only be the author of a woman’s misery, but to deprive her of the ability to speak of it.

“What are two women in the fate of a nation?” was Dr. Grant’s philosophic reply, when Henry had taken leave of him as well. “It is much better for you both to stay in London. The French will not be ungracious invaders and we have laid in good provision. Indeed, for making sure the houses next to us go unburnt, we have been paid from their pantries and cellars.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Grant, timidly, still crying a little, “you are a man. You need not fear any of the outrages women must guard against when invading armies have surrounded their homes.”

This thought had not occurred to Dr. Grant. He blustered a little and then concluded that so long as he was present, and they armed the boots boy and the lame stable hand who had not been conscripted, and Mary and Mrs. Grant remained at home, they could not be harmed. But as his wife kept weeping and his sister-in-law was rapidly and unhappily tapping her riding crop against the skirts of her riding habit, he admitted in a vague way to having somewhat failed to understand the difficulties of the present situation. He tried to cheer them up with thoughts of the fine dinners they might enjoy, or the long, uninterrupted hours of practice Mary might have on her harp, but was at last moved to apologize for having no carriage, and to rail against Henry for not allowing his sisters the use of his.

Dr. Grant retired to his study, with an annoyed, “Henry has upset my digestion. He should have thought of his sisters before pledging himself-- indeed, why could he not have asked the courier taking him to Woolwich to take the two of you on to Everington?”

Mrs. Grant said, bitterly, when they were alone in the foyer, “Henry did not think before pledging himself.”

Mary could not dredge up a word of defense for the person she loved best in all the world.

She had never before been silent in Henry’s defense. Upon hearing any story where Henry’s character was at all questioned or blackened, Mary immediately and almost unknowingly reframed the action. His selfishness was not painful, but amusing, when it was injurious to dislikeable people, his fits at starts at growing into something other than ‘Mr. Henry Crawford, Esq’ were indeed charming when seen from a distance, and his occasional thoughtlessness was little more than a slight imperfection to make the whole more endearing by contrast. Mary had learnt from first her mother, and then her aunt, that any pain could be lessened by an immediate shield of wit. Any attack fell smoothly away from a careless laugh, a cultivated insouciance. Men might have all the power of attack, but the Crawford women had ever known how to keep from being injured.

Mrs. Grant added, “After he had lived so long with Maria Rushworth without any thought of marrying her, I thought his character to be worse than I had previously imagined--but a libertine enough to join the Aerial Corps!”

Mary tried for a bon mot, but ended up with a slightly bitter, “Our brother rarely knows a thing until he speaks. It is too bad he did not realize what he was saying until halfway through the oath.”

It was carefully spoken, for all the (not unjustified) frustration that made Mary pace back and forth in the Grants' foyer. She said, “And you are sure Dr. Grant cannot be persuaded to go?”

“No, the Archbishop thinks it right for all clergymen without children to stay and tend to those who cannot leave the city, and for Dr. Grant in particular to make sure no harm comes to Westminster Abbey. I would have it otherwise for you, Mary, but....”

Since her brother had just proved so disappointing, Mary would not for all the world distress her sister. But still Mary thought, ‘Archbishop, ha! Dr. Grant does not move because he would be uncomfortable on the road, and the French chef will not go when she daily expects her son to invade.’

Mary had never before had cause to repine living with her sister in London, wonderful, diverse London, full of noise and chaos and interesting people, very far from the dreary dullness of the Parsonage, the smallness of the country society, and the shattered, spoilt family of Mansfield Park, but Northamptonshire was very appealing with the French not even one day’s march outside of London.

“Could any of your friends allow us a place in their carriage?" asked Mrs. Grant. "Most of them will have left, I expect....”

“Mrs. Fraser is already gone, and I do not doubt Lord and Lady Stornaway fled as soon as they heard there was fighting. But my horse is already saddled, and I shall lose nothing by going out and seeing if anyone remains.”

She went up Wimpole Street and around Hanover Square without luck, remembering, with increased bitterness, that her horse had been a present from Henry, an apology for accidentally ruining any chance she’d had of marrying Edmund Bertram. By unpleasant association, this led Mary to Hill Street, but when she arrived, she saw only Lieutenant Fry, the Admiral’s mistress, fetching papers. All the neighbors had already fled.

“You are in the city, Miss Mary?” said Lieutenant Fry, much surprised.

“Indeed I am,” said Mary, with all the lying smiles with which she usually favored Lieutenant Fry. “You need not squint; your eyesight is still sharp. Miss Mary Crawford is still in London.”

Edmund’s chastisements still rang in Mary’s ears now, whenever she failed to show proper deference to anyone, or when the amoral practicality she had learnt in Hill Street, and which served her so well in London society, led her off the primrose path. But Mary ignored them this time; she was too much in the habit of tossing sly, backhanded compliments at Lieutenant Fry to either be respectful or to ignore Lieutenant Fry entirely. (How would Edmund even have her behave in such an awkward situation? Damn Edmund, he had no notion of the complexities of life outside the still, empty _whiteness_ of Mansfield.)

Mary had got into the habit of being catty (for Edmund Bertram’s voice was in her head again, insisting that was what it was), partly in defense of her late aunt, and partly to amuse Henry, but mostly (though she did not like that she knew this about herself) because the chief of Mary’s pleasure came from seeing how she affected other people. It gratified Mary enormously to see the half-hidden looks of hurt or confusion flashing across Lieutenant Fry's wind-roughened features.

Both flashed across Lieutenant Fry’s face now as she stood stupidly in the open front door, staring up at Mary with her arms full of papers. At last she said, “You have heard Nell was attacked during the initial landing. Your uncle was badly hurt, but he is expected to recover.”

“I have heard more than you, it seems. I have heard also that Henry is now made captain of the Regal Copper Nell Gwyn.”

Lieutenant Fry turned red; an ill color with her sandy hair and her almost lashless blue eyes. Mary had merely guessed that Lieutenant Fry might have well expected to be made captain, since the Admiral had no children and Henry had shown no aptitude for service while young. Indeed, Mary had been the one to fearlessly and gracefully move about on dragonback. Henry had been sick as soon as the dragon left the ground.

“Can they so mistake Nell?” asked Lieutenant Fry.

“Like her namesake, I cannot think her too particular in her choice of partner,” said Mary, dryly. “Pretty, witty Nell was known to play parts opposite rakes, was she not? She is well matched in that case.”

“But your brother is no aviator, Miss, and I do not think you can fault me for saying so!”

“No,” said Mary, surprising herself with her own honesty. “I find myself in rare agreement with you, Lieutenant.” Then, endeavoring to be a little kinder, she said, “I had come to see if my uncle was here, but I suppose he is in Woolwich with the others?”

“Yes.” Then, uncertainly, “I never know what is proper for ladies. Would you like to come to Woolwich? Hollins is flying me there, as soon as I can sort through the Admiral’s papers.”

It was no use being kind to Lieutenant Fry; she knew less of propriety than Mary did.

“It is not in the least proper,” said Mary, with the habitual insinuation that Lieutenant Fry was not a lady. But this insult was never painful; Lieutenant Fry would be the first to frankly acknowledge she was no lady. “I daresay the Admiral cares as little for my well being as Henry does, but if the Admiral has brain fever and asks for me, I am trapped in London. I hope for neither death nor dishonor, but I shall probably be forced into one or the other. I wish you fair skies, Lieutenant, and beg you to slap Henry across the face for me if he screams while going above the clouds, like he did when we were children.”

It was not much of an olive branch, but it was one Lieutenant Fry could appreciate. She smiled and said, “You were always prickly, Miss Mary, but you always had good sense behind it. I wish your aunt had let us have the training of you.”

Mary hid her shudder. “I think that was a compliment-- at least, I shall chuse to interpret it as such. Farewell.”

The fashionable side of London was already deserted, or close to it. All who could afford to leave their servants in charge of shutting up the house, or who had been able to shut up their houses already, had left. She passed by the Yates, hoping that scatterbrained Mr. Yates and his wife Julia, nee Bertram, might be disorganized enough to still be in the city, but their small townhouse was shuttered and locked.

‘It would not have been comfortable at Mansfield,’ thought Mary. ‘It is good the Yateses are gone.’

Mansfield Park had taught Mary many things, the chief of which was the perhaps unintentional lesson that one selfish man could bring misery and ruin to all his dependents, particularly if he did not see himself as selfish, but, instead, a pattern card of benevolence and virtue. In the cold fury that had descended upon Mary after Edmund's rejection, she had determined Lady Bertram to be the embodiment of sloth, Tom to be spoilt and worthless, Edmund to be a judgemental prig, Maria to be as heartless as Edmund had accused Mary of being, and Julia to be incapable of independent thought. Fanny alone escaped Mary's bad opinion, for Mary had most certainty wronged Fanny. Mary had known she had gone too far almost as soon as she said to Edmund Bertram, “If only Fanny had married Henry, we might not be in this mess.”

That had not been just at all.

It had only been recently that Mary quite understood how unjust it was, and the realization of guilt plagued Mary at odd hours of the day and night. And now, when Henry's thoughtlessness, born of a cold-blooded vanity, had so injured her, Mary had to admit Henry had been almost entirely at fault, and she, Mary, had been thoroughly cruel when her partiality for her brother made her insist the contrary.

Fanny had been oppressed and forced into a habit of desperate gratitude, had been at the mercy of men, and yet had a stronger sense of what was right and what would secure her happiness than any of the other young people at Mansfield. It was only Fanny that had the air of goodness to Mary; only Fanny had been without censure.

And it was because of Fanny's quiet goodness (and Mary's seldom acknowledged sense of guilt) that Mary had surrounded herself with a better class of friend upon returning to London. Her most particular friend was Anne Elliot, who came to London only on sufferance, to please her godmother (and certainly not to please her father or elder sister, who gave to Anne any task they thought necessary, but did not wish to do themselves).

Though Mary and Anne had both attended the same boarding school in Bath, they had not been friends there. Anne had been too serious and withdrawn after the death of her mother, and Mary too wild from spending her formative years amongst aviators. It was only Mary's new, higher standards that caused her to remember how pleasantly time had passed in their shared music lessons, to see the good in Anne, and to pursue a friendship that had become beneficial to them both. Anne made Mary regularly talk and think on more interesting and serious subjects than was her wont, and practice more kindness than Mary had before. In turn, Mary made Anne laugh, and forced her into more pleasurable pursuits than Anne would normally have sought out.

It was to Anne that Mary's thoughts turned, and to Anne that Mary impatiently rode, hoping that the Elliot family party had not yet departed. But they had, and had left Anne behind. It was Anne herself who opened the front door and found one of the last remaining footmen to stable Mary's horse.

Anne was more accustomed to being left in the country than in the city and was thoroughly bewildered by the situation she now found herself in. Lady Russell, who had insisted upon Anne’s being taken to London, was at present in Bath, otherwise Anne would have had someone to think of her. As it was, Sir Walter and his eldest daughter had fled as soon as the carriage could be brought to the front, and abjured Anne to pack up their possessions and close the rented house, little recalling that in taking the carriage horses, they had left Anne with no avenue of escape.

“I cannot ride by myself out of London,” Anne said helplessly, “though I see you, too, have been forced to the same conclusion.”

Mary took a final look at the empty houses around Grosvenor Square, determined that the house across the way belonged to an MP from Liverpool who would welcome a French invasion, and gave up. “There is nothing for it. I beg you will come back to Westminster with me. There can be no objection from Dr. Grant if you allow our chef to take whatever he can from your stores and still room, and I cannot but shudder thinking of you alone in this great house, with all the servants fled and your relations so wanting and so negligent. Dr. Grant may be a hypocrite and an inebriate, but as long as he is fed and watered his temper is not bad, and his bulk will hopefully intimidate any French soldier who dares come near us.”

Anne’s gratitude was so great it seemed almost painful to her. Though Anne had warm affections, she was not demonstrative, and she was characterized more by the reserve of one unrecovered from great sorrows and disappointments than the ordinary cheerfulness of most women of one-and-twenty.

“Oh Anne,” said Mary, embracing her, so that Anne could shed a few silent tears on the shoulder of Mary’s riding habit, “I know you are accustomed to having your comfort give way to everyone’s convenience, but I shall not leave you alone while the French invade. We shall have very long concerts on piano and harp that will annoy anyone left in Westminster. What do you still need to pack?”

“You are so kind hearted to offer,” Anne said muffledly.

“I have been told my heart is not bad; it is merely my mind,” said Mary, thoughts still circling back to Mansfield Park. “Cold comfort indeed.”

Anne had not heard and looked questioning; Mary said, instead, “Come, let us speak to the servants.”

Unlike the quick succession of country maids working for room and board at the Grants, the servants at the house of Sir Walter Elliot had all come with references, experiences, and the understanding that they would be well paid for their labors. The servants who had not already fled were efficient and, as soon as they had heard the plan, worked out quickly who wished to flee and who wished to go to the parsonage with Miss Elliot, and who amongst which groups would take what provisions.

Organization broke down when the under butler flung open the doors to the wine cellar, but at that point, everything had been packed or hidden, so the ensuing bacchanal was not distressing. Mary and Anne left the servants to their debauches, marked the boxes to be taken over to Westminster, and took their horses from the stables.

It was an uncomfortable ride, but as some of the servants accompanied them with wheelbarrows full of good things, Dr. Grant welcomed them with alacrity.

Mrs. Grant had moved onto the sort of desperate cheer that is the last defense against a despondency that frightens all one’s neighbors. She said, loudly, to be sure her husband would hear her, “We shall not starve to death, that is certain. And now we are four at dinner, which must be seen as an advantage.”

Mary made Mrs. Grant come upstairs with them, and the necessity of readying a room for Anne, and finding places for the three or four servants that accompanied her allowed Mrs. Grant to regain a sense of order and control. It was of a limited scale, but it was something, and Mrs. Grant was much happier handing out linens than sitting in the parlor, prey to every morbid fancy.

Anne and Mary stayed to put Anne’s things away in the guest bedroom, though Mary soon lost interest in these domestic chores (as she always did), and began peering anxiously out the window.

“Is anything the matter, Mary?”

“I cannot get out," said Mary, “as the starling said to Yorick.” She leaned against the casement. “It is strange how of all the scenes in _A Sentimental Journey_ , that is what I never can seem to shake from my memory. The starling in the cage one cannot open, though it pushes its breast to the lock-- not only impatient, but desperate to be freed. And all its song quite vanished, for all the starling can do it cry, ‘I cannot get out.’ I suppose it stayed with me because it so perfectly illustrated the lesson: a pretty cage is still a cage. Slavery, however nicely gilded, is still slavery.”

Anne, still busy unpacking, said, distractedly, “Lady Russell is very passionate on the slave trade question; even though Nelson may support slavery, whatever fondness I have for the Navy cannot keep me from doing what I know to be right. Lady Russell--”

Lady Russell did not approve of wit and so did not approve of Mary; indeed, Lady Russell only tolerated the friendship between Anne and Mary because Anne’s spirits were still cast down over a broken engagement a year-and-a-half ago and Mary showed remarkable cheerfulness after having been in nearly the same situation herself. Mary thus showed all the respect due to Lady Russell by taking of her former subject. “Do you ever think it strange, dear Anne, that it should be so frequently seen in poems by women- that one image, the bird in the cage? I expect it in Mrs. Radcliffe but imagine my surprise to come to it in Aphra Behn and Charlotte Smith!”

Anne said, in her gentle, incisive way, “I think you are reading too much poetry, Mary. A little prose will do you good.”

“Do give me your prescription,” said Mary, “and I will think it better than an ordinary apothocary’s, but I find I must think of Sterne then. A cage, however you chuse to adorn or dismantle it, literally or figuratively, must remain a cage. Even if all others wish to enter it, one is still imprisoned.”

There was a note of reproach in Anne's voice as she said, “Talk as vaguely as you like, but I hope you are aware that for all the figurative slavery you seem to see us under, there are literal slaves in the British Empire, much more deeply to be pitied than ourselves.”

“You think our situation a particularly happy one at this instance! We poor creatures are dependent on people too selfish to notice that we are stuck in London as Napoleon invades.”

For all its charms, London was now a cage indeed. Anne could not deny it, but customarily shook off her sadness and said, “We shall contrive as best we can.”

Mary had no response for this and instead informed Anne that she would be in the parlor in the back of the house. It was no good staring at the street, awaiting invasion. Vague thoughts of music soothing Saul entered Mary’s head, and she changed out of her riding habit and into a plain morning gown of (ironically enough) French cambric, so she would be comfortable while playing her harp.

The music did not soothe her; Mary instead grew impatient at stupid errors, irritated that her fingers would not follow her thoughts.  

She then picked up a letter she had written and rewritten at least thirty times in the past two years. It had never been finished, nor did Mary ever think herself equal to the task of sending it.

“How can one possibly apologize for wronging an innocent?” asked Mary, melodramatically.

Anne, who had come down to work on a letter to her father and sister, considered this. “Sincerely.” Then, after a moment, “You may as well confess to me, Mary, everyone does.”

“What, and burden you with my misdeeds on top of all the little hints you must send out everywhere? How could you keep it all in your memory?” But Mary could not continue long in her flippancy. “I was needlessly-- thoughtlessly cruel, to one who deserved it least of all. Poor Fanny, all her life she has known only neglect or unthinking cruelty, and when my brother chose to behave badly, I blamed her for it. It was horridly unfair if me, I was only...” She wandered to the other end of the room and accidentally cut though the case of a pair of embroidery scissors by the unconscious, impatient movement of her hand. “I only had Henry after my aunt died, or so I thought. I would as little admit his wrong-doing as my own. But I must admit now, as I could not admit then, and have resisted admitting since, that I wronged Fanny Price. My brother wished to marry her and at the time it made sense to me that he seduced a married woman because Fanny Price refused him. It is only now that I can admit it to myself how stupid I was in defending Henry. He learnt only to care for his own convenience, not the needs of others, and did not care to see how disproportionately women suffer for the sins a man can easily shake off.”

Anne looked sympathetic, but had no answer.

“And now I wonder if I can ever beg Fanny’s forgiveness,” said Mary. “Sending a letter is now impossible, even if I could write it; my laziness is grown into such a stumbling block.”

Ann looked down at her own letter and put it aside. To Mary, she said, “You must not guilt yourself--”

“Oh I must,” said Mary, grimly, “the feeling passes too quickly, otherwise.”

There was a knock at the door; Mary called, “Yes?”

The newly promoted boots boy opened the door and shouted, “Lady Hamilton to see you!”

“Lady Hamilton!” exclaimed Anne, much surprised. “Are you sure you heard right?”

The boot boy, not wholly familiar with his new duties, had already gone to fetch Lady Hamilton from the foyer.

“I may not be as proper as you, but I am not wholly lost to propriety,” said Mary. “I have seen her attitudes in a drawing room or two, but I do not think I have ever spoken to- Lady Hamilton!”

Lady Hamilton came into the room looking almost nervous. She was still an enormously beautiful woman, with abundant, unbound chestnut hair, delicate features, and entirely too little clothing for the season. The graceful figure that had so inspired Romney (familiar to Mary, whose father had purchased ‘Emma Hart in a Straw Hat’ and whose uncle had inherited it and proudly displayed it in his dining room) had vanished thanks to the birth of Horatia ‘Hamilton,’ but Lady Hamilton still moved with extraordinary grace.

“Lieutenant Fry said I might call upon you, before she left for Woolwich,” said Lady Hamilton, without preamble. “And I know there is as little love between her and you as there would be between any child of Nelson’s and myself, but I am in most desperate need of your help.”

This was very startling, and Lady Hamilton’s broad Lancashire accent was difficult to parse; Mary said, “I beg pardon? I am not sure I even follow your parallel about a child of Nelson’s. I understand Miss Hamilton is at a difficult age, but I hope she has not repudiated you entirely.”

“No-- no-- I mean only that your connection with Lieutenant Fry cannot be if the sort to give you pleasure, but I must use it,” said Lady Hamilton, taking a seat without being offered it. The boots boy slammed the door. Mary and Anne winced, but Lady Hamilton was undisturbed. “You are Admiral Crawford’s niece, Miss Crawford?”

“I have often wished to be able to deny it, but that is beyond my power,” said Mary. “How does my connection with the Admiral or Lieutenant Fry aid you, Lady Hamilton?”

“Lieutenant Fry promised me a courier in Epping Woods every morning--”

“Epping Forest,” Mary corrected, automatically.

“--yes, there, in order that all their Lordships might receive news of London. I have pledged myself to gather it, but I am no horsewoman, and many would ask questions if I was to be riding ‘round Epping Forest every morning, and it must be Epping, for Captain Roland said Napoleon would most likely land all his important dragons in Hyde Park, and put all the auxiliary ones in St. James’s Park, so near to here. He’s the sort to put them on display.”

“Epping Forest is many miles from the other end of London,” said Mary, “so you are safe in that respect. I must confess a great slowness of intellect this evening. Did you wish only for me to check your geography?”

Anne was quicker and said, “Lady Hamilton, you cannot ask Miss Crawford to be your go between. It would draw as much suspicion if she was to ride across the city, all the way to Epping Forest, every morning.”

“Not as much,” said Lady Hamilton, “not if I was to put it out that you was needing to ride for health, not merely enjoyment, and could no longer ride in Hyde Park because of all the beasts there. And it must be you, Miss Crawford, because you are the only lady in London respectable enough not to be hassled by anyone--”

“God help us all if _I_ am the most respectable woman in London!” exclaimed Mary, thinking to herself, ‘Take _that_ Edmund Bertram!’

“--and yet the only lady to know a good deal of the Aerial Corps. All the officers’ wives are gone up to Scotland. The couriers would all know you on sight, and you would know them, and there would be no question of masquerading Frenchmen seizing my missives.”

“Yes, but I still have no reason to be about Epping Forest every morning,” said Mary. “Have you and Lieutenant Fry quite thought this through?”

Anne had been turning this over in her mind, and said, “Epping Forest-- the principal village is Loughton, is it not?”

Mary was obliged to fetch an atlas, but as this saved her the trouble of having to hide her exasperation from Lady Hamilton any longer. It was with a better effort at tranquility that Mary re-entered the room.

Anne was found to be correct, and she said, hesitatingly, “I think... there is a Mary who lives near Epping Forest....”

Mary wandered to the long windows overlooking the garden, saying, “Heavens, half of London is named Mary. You shall have to be a little more specific than that. The only Mary I can think of who lived near Epping Forest is Mary Wollstonecraft, and she is long dead.”

“Mary Worth, who is now Mary Conyer.”

“Oh that Mary! Poor creature, her husband thoroughly neglects her for his hunting. I am told by my lady’s maid, who was told by a long succession of other ladies’ maids, that her house is falling down about her ears, though she is so near her lying in--” Mary paused; struck by this. “The Conyers have Copped Hall, have they not?”

“Copped Hall in Epping Wood,” said Lady Hamilton, stabbing the map with an air of triumph.

“Mrs. Conyer will be too near her lying in to be moved, and will not be much attended to by her husband, and will be glad of the company, I expect-- she was musical, as we are.”

“So,” said Lady Hamilton, “you has got a very good reason to be riding there every morning and indeed it is a good thing for you to be riding, for I recall my own lying in, years ago, and there ain't anything to get you as gulchy as being all on your own with all the curtains and doors shut and no letters or visitors to keep you from your fears.”

Mary fiddled with the latch on the window. She did not know what to think; she was thoroughly bewildered. Her mind was so buffeted by formless anxieties over the invasion, she felt almost as if she could not comprehend anything Lady Hamilton was saying or suggesting.

Anne was better able to handle crises than Mary. She said, with something approaching equanimity, “But in saying this, I do not assert we will daily visit Mrs. Conyer. Lady Hamilton, recollect that it is winter and the roads outside of London are all mud and dirt, and it was too dangerous for us to leave the city on our own. When the French are in full possession of London, I cannot think it _less_ dangerous for us to go out on our own.”

“I can get you safe passage,” said Lady Hamilton. “That is easily gotten, and pistols too, if it will be a comfort to carry them, and you know the French are often very gallant to women. That I have often seen.”

The latch Mary had thought rusted in place was beginning to give. She scraped and pulled at it, giving her anxieties some outlet.

“When the army is all present and settled in, I have got it from many ladies of my acquaintance in France, them who was visitors to me and Sir William in Naples-- they have already extended the hand of friendship to me, hoping that I might have some influence here, as I had got in Naples. They mean it to be an occupation. They will not treat us bad, they wish us all to accept them. Madame Recamier had a letter sent to me about it, asking me to shew kindness to Murat and the little general, as they all call him. ”

“I shall be delighted to convince Dr. Grant to open up Westminster Cathedral so Napoleon may look upon William the Conqueror,” muttered Mary. “It is easier to imitate a person you have seen.”

Lady Hamilton was at first unsure if this was a joke, but continued on, as if Mary had not spoken. She was well aware that Mary was now beginning to comprehend her request.

“They will grant you liberties, that I am sure of,” said Lady Hamilton. “They will allow you to ride out, and you know that no foot soldier on sentry duty would ever stop a rich woman on a thoroughbred.”

Mary tried to think of a time where this hadn’t been the case, but could not; a large fortune was not only the best recipe for happiness she had ever heard of, but the greatest shield against inconveniences one could contrive.

“Say the day after Napoleon is in possession of  St. James,” said Mary, slowly, eyes on her reflection in the window, “and all the dragons are in Hyde Park-- say I should find it intolerable to be locked up in Dr. Grant’s house, so near to Napoleon’s great white dragon and all her attendants in Hyde Park, just down the road--”

“Mary,” said Anne, warningly.

“I speak only in hypotheticals, dear Anne. Perhaps Napoleon will fall off his dragon tomorrow and I need not give up my daily ride after all.”

Lady Hamilton said, her bright eyes meeting Mary’s in the reflections on the window, “Then it surely will not inconvenience you to ride past the Admiralty. I have taken a house very near to there.” Then, with a flash of pride, “Their Lordships has given it to me as a base during the occupation, in recognition of my Nelson, and what I volunteered to do.”

“Which house?”

Very smugly: “Northumberland House.”

Mary searched for something to say and ended up with, “How gracious of the Duke of Northumberland.”

Lady Hamilton looked conscious, confirming, to Mary’s mind, that the Duke of Northumberland had not been very pleased to have England’s most notorious woman living in his home, but the cabinet had forced his acquiescence.

“So, I am to ride along the Thames each morning and turn into Charing Cross from Northumberland Street, is that it?”

“Yes, and be given a letter by my mother, who will come to you in the guise of a housekeeper.”

Mary avoided the catty remark that Lady Hamilton’s mother was a housekeeper-- fitting since her daughter had been a maid at Drury Lane before becoming a courtesan-- and said, “And then on through London to Epping Forest. I see. Quite a long ride. Longer than my usual up and down Rotten Row.”

“You need only evenness of temper and steadiness of mind,” said Lady Hamilton, “and a good dose of bravery.” Then, a little more practically, “And a horse and pistols.”

“Are you thinking seriously of agreeing?” asked Anne, with more curiosity than judgment.

The hinge was giving. Mary returned her attention to it. “And would you rather we wait out occupation in self-imposed captivity? No. I shall act as a woman of spirit. I rather think a daily ride to Epping Forest could relieve the great oppression of spirits I seem to be suffering under. I am sure some surgeon, somewhere, told me I must ride of health, rather than pleasure.”

“You cannot go alone,” said Anne. Then, after a moment’s quiet consideration, she said, “I will go with you, Mary; two women will not draw any suspicion.”

Lady Hamilton looked to Mary, but Mary would not deny Anne. Anne’s heroism had always been of a quiet sort; it did not surprize Mary in the least that Anne was, as ever, willing to greatly inconvenience herself for the sake of people who did not much care about her. It was a very different motive from Mary’s eagerness to be doing, to fly from her cage for even an hour.

“If you are sure?” Mary asked, putting her shoulder to the stuck window.

Anne would not be swayed, once she had arrived upon the course of action she thought most proper.

The window gave under the pressure of Mary’s shoulder; cold air swirled through the room, lifting up the pages of the atlas, casting sheet music to the ground, sending the abandoned letters twirling away.

“Then it is settled,” said Lady Hamilton.

“I am not born to sit still and do nothing,” said Mary, closing her eyes and allowing the cold breeze to caress her cheeks. “If I am to risk my life by being in London during the French occupation, I shall not do it as a victim; I shall do it as a woman of spirit.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It took only a day for the French to take full and nearly bloodless control of London.

Mary broke two strings on her harp from jumping each time she heard a thump or a crash outside, and the lame groom, Cofield, was frequently sent limping up and down the street to cobble together what dragon shadows and columns of soldiers he saw into a coherent report of the invasion. The first day was full of alarums and terrors, and horrifying reports that the French had captured England’s only fire-breather.

Cofield had seen the great red and purple dragon, with all her steaming spikes. “Tearing up statues in Hyde Park, she was,” he exclaimed, in the crowded kitchen. “Right by that great white dragon of ol’ Bony’s. The steaming one was making a great fuss over her captain. I ain’t never heard dragons speak afore, nor had any idea they spoke like fine ladies.”

“Most do not,” said Mary.

“I knew Bony’s beast was an odd creature,” said Cofield, not quite understanding Mary. “I was thinking to myself, Cofield, old fellow, dragons cannot talk. It is only these furren ones that do.”

Mary did not protest the truth she had meant, that all dragons spoke, but most were fighters born and bred, and spoke as Henry V had protested to Princess Katherine: ‘I speak to thee plain soldier.’ Instead she said, merely, “Heard you any talk of her captain?”

“Taken, too, held who knows where.” Cofield shuddered. “For a man to dedicate his own life to them awful beasts is a good thing for England, this I know, but I was greatly afeared when that great dragon was crisping all the grass and calling for her Granby. What a life for poor Captain Granby, at the whim of suh a creature! They will keep her in Hyde Park all war, think ye? Roaring forever over the captain what got taken from her.”

"Let us hope the French will not be able to contain England's only firebreather for the duration of this occupation," said Mary.

Mrs. Grant wept because nearly anything caused her to weep now, and Anne looked distressed, but neither of them could know-- could possibly know, thought Mary, retreating from the kitchen to pace before the window in the parlor-- just how disastrous this was. Mary had heard of Captain Granby, but never met him, and by report she had idly thought him a great fool to be so led about by his dragon. Mary had seen enough unequal partnerships in her life to despise anyone who entered into them, even if they were the weaker party. It was not a hatred founded on fact, merely the compounded and unacknowledged fear always beneath her breastbone, that one day she, too, would be forever shackled to an idiot, who would plague her at best, and beat her at worst.

But it was hard knowing of this capture while knowing a great deal about aerial warfare. Every fearful reckoning of the imagination was worse because it had solid fact behind it, to give it weight.

The night brought better report.

Anne, Mrs. Grant, and all the maids had gone to bed after a last cup of tea. (Dr. Grant had fallen asleep immediately after a very fine dinner the jubilant chef had set out.) Mary was still up, sensible enough not to waste candles, but still selfish enough to have a fire to herself in the parlor. She sat staring at the crumbling logs, her hair loosely pulled back, one shawl drawn tight over her shoulders, the other a pretty blanket over her lap. She could not sleep. She could only try and fool herself with mathematics, thinking to herself, ‘Well, and three longwings, total, if Captain St. Germaine can get over from Halifax, that is three full formations, one may still mount a holding defense if they are taking Edinburgh for their base.’

There had been crashes and roars all day and nearly all night. The sudden absence of them had made Mary yet tenser. All of a sudden there was a roar that sounded like a name, and a crash that made the ground shake. Mary sat bolt upright and, without much thinking of the impropriety, rushed out into the garden in her shawl and slippers, with her hair loose and uncovered. Windows were opening behind her.

Mary stared up at the heavens and saw great wings blocking out the moon and stars, and great streams of hissing steam leaving trails in the sky like the tails of comets.

She could have cried in relief; the firebreather had got out with her captain.

Seconds later, before Mary could even determine whether or not to give into the impulse to weep or reject it, a second dragon soared overhead. This dragon was moon pale, save for two red pinpricks Mary took to be her eyes, at once a source of wonder and terror. Mary’s second shawl dropped from her nerveless fingers onto the frost-tipped grass.

Mary had never seen a dragon so extraordinary in her entire life. She was so taken by this sight she almost didn’t notice the little dragons that swarmed about the big white one, and went rushing after the fire-breather.

“I think we have lost her, Your Imperial Majesty,” said one of the Fleur-de-nuits, in a carrying voice.

Overhead the white dragon hovered in place.

Mary had never seen this before either, and thought to herself, ‘Heavens, we are lost, if _this_ is Napoleon’s dragon.’

The white dragon said, in careful, measured tones, “This does not please me, Justice.”

“This mistake will be corrected, Your Imperial Majesty,” the Fleur-de-nuit said, winging away.

The white dragon hovered a moment longer and said, in kinder tones, “She was an ill-bred, rude sort of creature.” A brief murmur, too far away for Mary to hear it. “She will not be a threat to us. She is too badly trained. It will aid us, to have her bring further chaos into the British camp."

Mary’s shocked, uneven breaths hung in the air, trying to imitate the shape of the white dragon shrinking in the distance. She went back indoors and fell upon Anne's neck, shivering but not weeping, the white dragon still painfully vivid against her closed eyelids.

The whole household was awake, taking what comfort they could from the news Mary got out: that a steaming dragon had flown off into the night. The white dragon was hers alone, and the weight of wonder stilled her tongue when she would otherwise have spoken.

Dr. Grant was so disturbed he went out himself to see what was wrong.

“Soldiers stopped me,” he said, out of breath and red-faced. "The French have been most ungracious."

"They have lost the firebreather they caught," said Mary. "They have been burned. No wonder they are out of temper."

Mary slept well until the sunrise, dreaming of white wings against a black sky.

She woke to Anne's gentle hand upon her shoulder, and equally gentle voice in her ear. "Mary, it is dawn. Shall we risk it?”

“Let us at least attempt the wager,” said Mary, and they helped each other to dress and went down to the kitchen.

Mary and Anne had hoped for a cup of overbrewed tea left out from the night before, and a toasted muffin over the smoky remains of the kitchen fire. Instead they found the fire burning, the range already lit, and the chef, Madame Dubiard, humming ‘La Marseillaise’ as she pulled a brioche from the oven.

“Good morning ladies,” she said, cheerfully. “Cofield, he will be back soon with more news. Are you riding out yourselves?”

“It was so bad yesterday, being shut up and unable to see anything,” said Mary, setting her hat and riding crop on a corner of the table. “I thought to ride out and see how things are for myself, now that everything is more settled. Miss Elliot and I will not be harried, do you think?”

Madame Dubiard considered this and said, “No, I do not think it, but I will ask my son and he will give you good report.” Then, very proudly, “He is in the aerial force, my Gustav, and his dragon is part of the honor guard to Madame Lien.”

“I am sure he well deserved his posting,” said Mary. Then, hesitating only a moment, she said, “You know he is welcome to the kitchen. I do not think it right to insist Dr. Grant receive him, when his loyalty to the Church of England makes his staying in London something of a diplomatic....”

“Ah, no I will not waste Gustav’s time,” said Madame Dubiard, comfortably. “You I should like him to meet, for you will like him, and you know dragons.” Though Madame Dubiard had always been used to rule the Grant household, deferring only to Mrs. Grant in the number of people to feed at a given meal, her rule was now absolute and unchallenged. Still, she was gracious enough to add, “If that is agreeable to you, Miss Crawford.”

Mary murmured her acquiescence.

"Good, for Gustav has promised to come to me soon. It is dawn, his watch has ended."

They had enough time to practice normalcy. Mary had always found it easy to pretend at what she did not feel, and was so accustomed to feigning nonchalance in public that she could eat her toast and drink her tea with perfect equanimity. Anne’s cup rattled in the saucer when she put it down and she did not pick it back up again.

The maids had begun to drift in, in varying states of wakefulness, when they were all roused to a state of high alert by someone banging on the door to the servants’ entrance.

“Cofield’d just barge in,” muttered the head housemaid, terrified.

But then came a torrent of voluble French. Mary caught one or two of the words, but was unused to listening to any language other than English. Anne was a much better translator and said, cautiously, “I believe it is your son, Madame Dubiard.”

Madame Dubaird was clanking around the pantry, and emerged with her arms full of jams and jellies. She arranged them on the trestle table almost automatically, glancing up at her reflection in one of the hanging copper pots. Mary saw at once that to act now, and particularly, to act graciously, would win her Madame Dubiard’s approval and blind eye for years to come. She slid out of her chair and said, gaily, “You cannot meet your son in an apron! Let me help you-- Daisy, I dropped my Kashmir shawl on the ground last night, I think you brought it in and left it somewhere in the kitchen to dry?”

Mary had Madame Dubiard out of her floury apron, and into the folds of a pale gold shawl, with red and purple medallions on the ends, before the boots boy could stumble to the kitchen door. Madame Dubiard had never worn anything as expensive in her life and stared now at the shawl, instead of a reflection she had found wanting.

“I am inclined to make you a present of it,” said Mary. “My thrice damned brother gave it to me after the whole debacle two years ago. As if that could make up for--” She pressed her lips together. “Well.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle.” Madame Dubiard was pleased, both with the gift and the gossip. Henry’s elopement with Maria Rushworth, and the break it caused between Henry’s sister and Mrs. Rushworth’s brother, always made a good story. Indeed, Cofield often got a full night of drinking spinning out all the details of the scandal (though Mary’s largesse had ensured his version cast her in the light of a tragic heroine). This was the first time Madame Dubiard had gotten something out of such delightful gossip, and it was much nicer than any number of drinks.

The boots boy was having trouble with the door; Madame Dubiard strode forth and opened the door herself, saying, in tearful French, “Ah my Gustav! I haven’t seen you since the Peace of Amiens!”

A solidly-built man fell upon Madame Dubiard’s neck, weeping and kissing her cheeks, assuring her that she had not changed a bit, no, she had only grown more fine, she must be in very high demand as a chef, and look at her, just look at her, his own dear mother! No, she had not changed at all!

“Ah but you have,” said Madame Dubiard, smiling through her tears. “My Gustav! Look at your epaulettes!”

“Yes,” he said proudly, “I have put to harness a Flamme-de-gloire, Lumière. He is part of Madame Lien’s honor guard!”

But, to his credit, Gustav Dubiard was less interested in his own successes than knowing how his mother had occupied herself for six years. He was delighted to take a tour of her kitchen, exclaiming over her pantry, extolling her brioche, and equally happy to meet all the people with whom she passed her days. He listened fascinated, to all of Madame Dubiard’s triumphs, the great deserts she had made, the Admirals and baronets and scholars who had sent for her at the end of dinners. It occurred to Mary that she had no idea how treasured was a carelessly dropped word of praise, how much delight she could cause by asking Madame Dubiard for some particular treat.

“You have been happy here?” asked Captain Dubiard. They were all sitting at the trestle table. Mary, Anne, and the maids were all uncomfortable with this collapse of hierarchy and blurring of boundaries, but Mary pretended not to mind, and all the others followed her example.

“Yes, I have been happy since coming to work for the Grants,” his mother replied, in English, so that everyone else at the table could understand. The maids all relaxed. With a start, Mary realized that none of them could speak French. “The people are gentle here, except my maid who cleans dishes is always going away and I have to get a new girl very often. But Mrs. Grant knows I can plan meals better than anyone and lets me do anything I wish as long as I stay in budget, and Dr. Grant is always very complimentary about my cooking. And Miss Mary plays the harp like an angel! If we leave all the doors open when she is practicing, or when there is music after grand dinners, it is very merry belowstairs.”

Captain Dubiard turned his attention now, to Mary, who smiled and modestly demurred, in very academic French, that she was not so grand a harp player as Madame Dubiard made her out to be. It was clear Captain Dubiard thought Mary pretty, though he said nothing to that effect and merely hinted that he and Lumière would both like hearing the harp, for they had never heard one. Mary feigned tone deafness to this request however and said, merely, “It is a beautiful instrument, but you must not take my judgment as gospel truth. I am a biased and far from impartial judge. In truth, the only thing I love more than the harp is horseback riding.”

“You are dressed to ride,” observed Captain Dubiard. “My visit has interrupted you.”

“Not at all,” said Mary, with a laughing glance. “We dressed with more optimism than actual intent. Do you think it safe for us to ride? We will not be harried by the other soldiers?”

“No, I shall ensure you will not. Five minutes mother, and I will return. Lumière made me promise to wake him and let him taste some of your brioche.”

“Dragons eat brioche?” asked Anne, looking unsure she had heard correctly. She turned to Mary, who was just as confused. She had only ever seen dragons eating raw meat.

“Chinese dragons eat all manner of things,” said Captain Dubaird, with a rougish smile. “Madame Lien insisted on cooked meats for herself, and fish and watercress for Lumière, with a bowl of mint tea for every meal. Too much yang, she said! But it has balanced him, true enough, and all of Madame Lien’s orders have made life better for all us us, dragons, riders, ordinary citizens. Ah, mother, you should see Paris now! But come, Miss Crawford?” He bowed and offered his arm.

Mary motioned for Anne to take it, and instead picked up the remains of the brioche. “For Lumière, yes?”

Captain Dubiard was now as pleased with Mary as his mother was, and though he did not take Mary and Anne all the way to Hyde Park, he took them to an officer with a prodigious deal of black, curly hair, and a long black leather flying coat worked with gold embroidery. This officer took Captain Dubiard aside a little, as Dubiard conveyed Mary’s request, and then turned to say, politely, “Miss Crawford? The name is familiar to me.”

“My uncle was of the dragon Nell Gwyn,” said Mary, calmly, in her overly formal French. “He was an admiral, but he was injured during the initial landing at Dover. Perhaps you have had word of him? Admiral Crawford?”

“Ah yes, I was sorry to hear he had fallen from his dragon.” The officer shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Bad luck! He fought well.”

“It relieves my mind to hear it,” said Mary. “Nell was used to complain he had got lazy patrolling the Channel. I thought he might have just fallen off her because he was out of practice.” Both men smiled, as she knew they would. Then, with a falsely stricken look, Mary continued on, “I beg your pardon, I grew up near the Irish breeding grounds. My manners are often too much of the aviator, too little of the lady.”

The officer laughed. “No wonder you wish to ride out while there are dragons everywhere. The parks will be all pavilion soon enough.”

“I prefer a ride in Epping Forest,” said Mary. “For, to tell the truth, I do not wish to ride for pleasure. A schoolfellow of mine lives in Copped Hall and she is....”

Anne supplied the correct word.

“Yes, with child. She could not leave.” Mary allowed herself to show some of the worry she felt. “It is the first time, for her. The poor dear! We are... what’s the word. I ought to have thought of her yesterday. That is what I mean.”

Anne supplied the word ‘negligent,’ in what seemed to Mary a purposefully bland tone.

Mary turned to look at Anne warningly; perhaps Anne did not precisely approve of Mary’s half-flirtatious and very casual air, but Anne had no notion of how aviators behaved. Mary had spent nearly all her early years with them, and had spent several, equally formative years in boarding school in Bath, pinpointing just what all of those behaviors were, so that she could try and eradicate them in herself.

She had never succeeded, though she had often fooled herself into thinking so-- though, Mary thought, turning this over in her mind, as if looking over a length of muslin for warped threads-- this was not quite right. Mary had always prided herself on getting rid of bad behaviors, but keeping hold of all of the conclusions drawn from not only behaving badly herself, but seeing bad behavior in others.

But now the officer was speaking, and Mary was so occupied with her thoughts, she could only get the gist of his words: that she and Anne was brave women, or some kind of women modified with a French word that began with ‘b,’ and she and Anne were also _sensible,_ though Mary could not recall if this meant they had sense or sensibility.

Captain Dubiard repeated this _faux ami_ of a word, and mentioned the brioche growing cold in Mary’s gloved hands. Mary held it out with a pretty turn of the wrist, and a puzzled smile. “It is for the dragon?”

The officer smiled and said, slowly enough for Mary to catch it, “I can see you grew up near dragons, Mademoiselle Crawford. Yes, we will grant you permission. Take these--” handing Captain Dubiard his gloves “--so that the patrol do not stop you. You may ride out every day if you wish, you and your friend.”

Mary curtsied deeply. “I thank you, sir.”

She exchanged the brioche for the gloves and only realized, when they were halfway back to the stables, that they had been speaking to Marshal Murat.

“Good Lord,” said Mary, a little alarmed. “Dearest Anne, did you realize we were talking to a prince?”

“What?” Anne took the gloves, saw the ‘JM’ worked in gold upon them, and said, “That doesn’t necessarily mean ‘Joachim Murat.’ It could be ‘Jean Martin’ or ‘Jacques Montesqieu’ or any other name.”

“No, but look at the bees.”

Anne was still focused on letters and said, “There is only a J and an M on this glove.”

“No, no, bees! Gold bees! You know, buzz, buzz, buzz. Those bees.” She pointed at the golden bees on either side of the ‘JM.’ “It’s a pun on the B in Bonaparte.”

Mary was so distracted by this, they nearly walked into a division of cavalry officers headed for Hyde Park. They rode in perfect formation-- something that really should have been impossible with dragons so close.

In the light of this new mystery, Mary lost interest in whether or not they had actually gotten Murat’s permission to ride to Epping Forest every morning. She stared after the cavalry officers over her shoulder, trying to discern what she could from the shrinking backs of the riders, and the flicking tails of the horses.

“How is it accomplished?” Mary muttered to herself, very slowly approaching her own horse, hands outstretched. The mare was anxious from all the loud noises of the past two days, whickering in its distress. “Shh, shh, there’s a good creature.”

Anne wisely enlisted Cofield’s help with her own mount, and asked him about the cavalry men. He thought the horses might have been wearing some kind of blinders, but even then, that did not fully solve the problem. They tried putting a makeshift set of blinders on Anne’s horse, but it whinnied in distress when they opened the stable door, and the smell of dragons came wafting to its nostrils.  

Both horses grew calmer the farther away they were from St. James’s Park, and they were almost settled by the time Mary and Anne turned onto Northumberland Street.

A woman in an apron and mobcap was not so much beating out a carpet, but tapping it lightly, the carpet entirely blocking the window on that side to the servant’s entrance; she saw Mary and eyed her suspiciously. Anne came trotting up behind.

“How d’ye-do?” asked the woman.

Mary drew up and said, sotto voce, “Well, thank you Mrs.... er, Hart, I believe, was your daughter’s name, before she picked up ‘Hamilton.’ I am Mary Crawford.”

“Sir Willum always was used t’call me Mrs. Coyner,” replied Lady Hamilton’s mother, drawing out three or four letters out of her capacious apron pockets. Mary very quickly took them and put them in her open saddlebag. If Mary had trouble with Lady Hamilton’s accent, it was nothing compared to Mrs. Coyner’s. “Tecka care, now.”

“I will-- oh.”

This hadn’t been a farewell, but an admonition; Mrs. Coyner stepped back to reveal a brace of pistols. Mary glanced at Anne, who was fussing with her horse’s bridle, and glancing anxiously up and down the deserted street.

Mary took these, and all their accoutrements, placing them in her saddlebag with more greater care than she had with the letters.

“If tha would teck th’too?” She showed Mary something that looked like a feed bag but smelled like a still room. She eventually conveyed to Mary that this was the grand secret of the French army: scented nosebags and blinders to keep the horses from bolting. Mrs. Coyner attached the device to the horse’s harness and then promised a second for Anne, as soon as it could be accomplished, and quite hopefully at dawn tomorrow.  

The streets were deserted and almost suspiciously clean. Mary soon realized why, when Anne’s horse whinnied and nearly bucked; a Flame-de-gloire coasted overhead and, about half-a-mile ahead of them, blew out a stream of fire to melt snow on the streets-- a necessary and forceful cleaning of the horrifying mix of human, animal, and vegetable refuse that generously carpeted all the cobblestones.

They had to redirect their path, but made much better time across London than they ever had before. They were stopped only twice, and each time, the sight of Murat’s gloves ended the interrogation immediately. Even though they had not set out exactly at dawn, as they initially planned, Mary and Anne still managed to interrupt the Conyers as they were sitting down to breakfast. Mrs. Coyner was too delighted to have company to immediately question why her schoolfriends had ridden through occupied London so early in the morning. She at once insisted they dismount and join the meal, solicited her husband’s advice on the best places to ride in the forest, and at times entirely forgot the French army had established its headquarters not five miles distant.

Mr. Conyer accepted the truth Mary had crafted for him: that Mary had thought only of Anne in the invasion and felt very guilty about not thinking of Mrs. Conyer. Anne, of course, had thought of Mrs. Conyer, and been very worried for her; what might have been a weekly visit from Anne’s good nature, became a daily visit from Mary’s guilt. This saved Mr. Conyer the effort of entertaining his wife, and allowed him to ride into Epping Forest, shooting whatever creatures had not died of fright from the dragons overhead, so he was pleased.

Mary Conyer they admitted into their confidence, once her husband had left the room, and she was glad to assist them. Mrs. Conyer was something of an eccentric, fond of Gothic novels and new poetry, fonder still of the company of friends, and fondest of all of the company of large packs of dogs. This last quality had allowed her to resign herself to her damp, uncomfortable home with tolerable good grace, and it was her love of music that meant the music room as in as good a condition as the stables. Anne and Mary passed a quarter of an hour in the music room, fussing with the piano and the guitar, and laughing at Mrs. Conyer’s endless stories of the oddities of her relations. Mrs. Conyer showed them out the back way and promised to tell her husband and her servants that her friends had spent an hour or more with her, and to be very vague on which direction they had gone.

From Copped Hall, it was merely a quarter of an hour’s ride to the rendezvous point. They reached the summit of the hill and looked about the deserted woods; the bare branches and frosted ground. Instinctively, Anne glanced back at the road, and Mary glanced down the hill, where she could make out the shape of a dragon underneath a tree and behind the skeletal remains of some bushes.

“A Greyling,” Mary said.

“A what?”

“A courier beast, usually very fast but not very bright. Sweet-natured though-- I rather think of them as the golden retrievers of the dragon world. Hm, I wonder…”

Anne said, “We are alone; there is no one here.”

Mary said, in a louder voice, “God save the King.”

“Why?” chirruped the dragon. “Has he got stuck? I got stuck in a fence looking for cows once. I did not like it. Termer had to get me out.”

“Volly!”

Mary laughed and rode down the hill at a sprightly canter. “Captain James and Volly! I never thought to see you assigned to something like this.”

Captain Langford James emerged from his own hiding place, between Volly and the tree, looking sheepish.  Captain James was a fairly typical aviator, bluff and good natured, almost roughly affectionate with his dragon. Mary had danced with him once or twice at the Admiral’s parties, but not very often; the niece of an Admiral did not waste her time on the captains of courier beasts (according to the Admiral; according to the Admiral’s wife, the niece of an Admiral should not waste her time on dragon captains at all).

“It is all right, we are friends to the crown,” said Anne, a little worriedly. “We are quite alone; there is no one on the road.”

Captain James looked at his dragon with exasperated fondness. “I beg your pardons. Volly doesn’t lend himself well to waiting silently in the bushes.”

“You were sleeping,” said Volly, a little puzzled.

“That is still waiting,” said Captain James. “But heavens bless me-- Miss Crawford, you’re our contact? I hadn't any idea you'd be our courier."

"My uncle did try to convince me to be one when I was ten," said Mary, waving to Volly, who excitedly jumped from snowbank to snowbank. "My aunt won, and I was sent to school in Bath instead of the Irish breeding grounds. This is a school friend of mine, Anne Elliot."

"How d'ye do?" said Captain James, heartily. Anne, with her typical reserve, merely nodded and offered her hand. James pumped it thoroughly.

He turned to Mary. "Help you dismount, Miss Crawford?"

"Where might I best keep lookout?" Anne asked. "I have no military experience--"

"Higher ground is best, as is a view towards your enemy's encampment. I'd suggest that hill above the forest here. Volly, make your courtesy to the lady before she departs."

Volly paused here he was and bobbed his head up and down several times.

Anne was amused, but did not like to show it. She calmed her fretting horse (Mary's horse was wearing the nosebag) and said, "I am pleased to have made your acquaintance."

"I was hatched," said Volly, seriously, "from an egg."

"You astonish me," Mary said dryly. "Thank you Anne, I will not be five minutes."

Captain James put his hands to Mary's waist and helped her easily to dismount. Mary wound the long train of her red riding habit around one arm, tucked her riding crop under the other, and led her horse to the nearest tree.

"It's a bad business," said Captain James, hands in his pockets. "I never thought London would be taken without a fight. I am surprised you are got out safely."

"No guard thinks to question a pretty woman in an expensive gown, and our chef’s son got us the protection of, I think, Marshal Murat." Mary tested the knot she'd made on the reins, and pointed her crop at the right saddlebag. "Lady Hamilton has given me three or four letters to bring to you daily, if we can manage it. It will be less questioned if I go out on an early morning ride- particularly this early. Even on Sundays it will not be seen amiss if I am come back before the service begins."

"I can be here every morning at eight-o-clock," said Captain James. "You will not be hassled? It might be better if you were to come with is to Scotland. Volly can bear all three of us, easy enough.”

Volly seemed inclined to dash towards them to immediately prove this. In some fear for her horse, Mary floundered forward through the snow and laid a gloved hand on Volly's snout. He made happy rumbling noises as she scratched his muzzle. "I could carry both of you!" he agreed. “And the other lady.” He thought deeply and said, with uncharacteristic seriousness, “I could not carry the horses.”

"You needn’t carry anyone," said Mary, soothingly. “I am sure you could carry Miss Elliot and myself all the way to Scotland, but then I should be leaving Lady Hamilton very much in the lurch, and that is neither fair nor sporting."

"It is dangerous," said Captain James, quietly.

Mary said, tartly, "Have you ever considered me spiritless, Captain James? I was not born to sit idly by. There is a course of useful action before me- a rare occurrence in my life- and I am willing to pursue it."

Captain James took the letters from her saddlebags. "Sanderson, Dalyrumple, Perceval, Nelson. I do not know how we shall get this last to Nelson. Even Volly can't fly to Copenhagen with the Channel full of French ships and Fleur-de-nuits."

“Why you and Volly?” Mary realized something that had been worrying her, like a loose thread in a gown, and said, “Captain James, you and Volly are usually on the Southern route through the Med, are you not?”

“We usually are, but circumstances....” Captain James looked pointedly at Volly and lowered his voice. “Their Lordships gave the cure to the heavyweights first. It is a wonder Volly...” He broke off, unable to continue. He had come too near grief, too recently, to talk of it

Mary did not know what to say. It was a dreadful reality. She deflected with, “You had better figure out how to fly from London to Copenhagen. Nelson will defy the laws of physics to return to Britain when he sees Lady Hamilton's ill-spelt and oddly capitalized pleas.”

James smiled, as Mary knew he would.

“Can you tell me what happened last evening, Captain James? Your firebreather is safely got out, last I heard.”

“Aye, her and her captain.” He chuckled. “Poor Granby! I am always glad of Volly, but I am doubly glad the times I have seen Iskierka!”

“You are glad of me?” asked Volly, prancing through the snow like a cat around its favorite toy.

“Always, your great lump,” said Captain James, very affectionately. “I have spent sometimes fourteen hours of the day on your back, Volly, it is hard going for me when you are not by.”

Volly wound around him ecstatically; rubbing his head against any part of Captain James he could reach. This immobilized, Captain James turned back to Mary.

“How was such a thing accomplished?” Mary prompted. “I heard a rumor from my friend Mrs. Coyner that some idle heir apparent had got himself killed, but she had her news fourth or fifth hand. A Woolvey?”

“I have not got the name of the gentleman who was killed, but it was a friend of Captain Laurence--” He broke off and looked down at Volly.

Mary kept her expression one of polite interest. Her only strong opinion on the Laurence Question, as he papers called it, was that Captain Laurence had been ridiculous not to stay in France after delivering the cure to the dragon plague. She could not sympathize with the moral duty that might lead a man to betray his country and then return for punishment. Indeed, she had no very strong notions of loyalty to anybody, except for Mrs. Grant and Anne.

“I have met the fellow and cannot ignore him and call him blackguard like half the other aviators,” said Captain James, in a low, rough voice. “By God! I was near to death myself when Volly was so ill, I cannot countenance a whole continent of men going through the agonies I experienced.”

“But I am not ill any longer,” said Volly, stoutly. “Termer has made me all better.”

“Indeed he has,” said Captain James, fondly. “And for that I owe him and his captain a greater debt than can be talked of. And I must speak of his heroism. Laurence and a captain of the ferals, a good fellow, Tharkay, they snuck into London under cover of darkness. Laurence is a son of Lord Allendale--” then, looking a little sheepish “--I am forgetting Ms. Crawford, how much you are in society, earls and dukes mean something to you.”

“Yes, and I have met Lady Allendale,” said Mary. “She is a very good sort of woman; I can see where Mr. Laurence might get that particular stupidity one calls both duty and bravery. Did he earn his pardon by this action?”

“No, I think he got nothing for it but Granby and Iskierka.” Captain James chuckled again; he was almost always cheerful, and could make himself so very quickly and easily. “But he and Tharkay and this society fellow, they snuck into Hyde Park, and into wherever they were keeping Granby, and they showed Iskierka where he was and she tore down half of Bony’s palace. They are flying onto Scotland now.”

“I shall make inquiries into the, ah... society fellow, if I can. I have no reason to go into society right now, or really any wish to. I can best serve my purpose by staying at home.”

Captain James nodded and said, “On the days I am not here to receive your messages, it will be Captain Hollins, on Elsie. We are still rearranging our courier system now that we cannot land at London. I shall introduce you to him tomorrow.”

Hollins was a very common sort of man, but capable, and Elsie was a very large Winchester. They were polite but a little overawed at being greeted by Admiral Crawford’s niece. Collins did not think to help her down, so Mary had to awkwardly remain on horseback when telling Hollins of the sentries on duty at this part of London, the rebuilding going on, the homes taken over by the French occupying forces.

It relieved Mary’s mind, somewhat, to talk a little with the couriers before they flew off. The meetings felt less clandestine, certainly, and both James and Hollins were curious as to the changes in the city, the mood of the populace, the possible movements of the French forces. They devoted at least five minutes each meeting to contingency plans, or to discussions of weather or society that might keep Mary from the rendez-vous. For several weeks, Mary and Anne very punctually kept their appointment, and always found Captain James and Volly, or Captain Hollins and Elsie waiting.

However, a week after Murat and Talleyrand returned from failed negotiations in Scotland, Captain Hollins and Elsie were not there.

"They are a quarter of an hour late," said Anne, consulting the watch that hung on a fob from the lapel of her habit.

"I will not be dictated to be a watch," said Mary, searching the gray, cloudy sky. "A watch is either too fast or too slow. Elsie is always on time. She is very precise for a Winchester."

But at noon they gave up and returned home.

The next day, Captain James and Volly were not there either.

“I think my watch is broken,” said Anne.

But both of them watched the slow creep of the sun across the sky and realized: no one was coming.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lady Hamilton was outside, beating her own rug the next morning. She had only to look at Anne's anxious expression and Mary's pinched one to realize the truth.

"Two days without letters," she said, softly.

Mary inclined her head.

Anne said, gently, "Is there any other way?"

"I shall think on it." Then, with a ferocious whack at the carpet, she said, "Try today. If there is no one... Worse, if there is someone you don't know...." Lady Hamilton looked anxiously up at Mary. "My mother said you was familiar with pistols?"

Anne was pale; Mary was still.

After a moment, Mary said, "I have shot at targets and at foxes and birds, but never at men."

"Do you need shot or powder?" asked Lady Hamilton.

"I have not yet drawn my pistols," said Mary.

Lady Hamilton refrained from saying, ‘You will have to, today,’ but Mrs. Coyner had no such compunctions. She rested her linked hands on the swell of her belly and said, frankly, “You will miss if you have never used your pistols before. Perhaps we had better take Charles into our confidence.”

Anne set down her cup of tea. “Do you really think that wise?”

“No,” said Mrs. Coyner, reluctantly. “But Charles is an excellent shot. Before I married I’d never shot anything before. Now I can reliably hit grouse nine times out of ten. Charles is a dear soul, it is so good of him to share his hobby with me.”

“Why don’t you go out with Mary?” asked Anne, pragmatically.

“What excuse would I have for the servants?” asked Mrs. Coyner. "Well, all except the groom and the groundskeeper. They are as hunting mad as Charles and would never comment on how many people Charles drags with him, hunting."

“What is excuse would you give to your half-blind cook, your drunk butler, or your exhausted maid-of-all-work?” asked Mary. “My suggestion: anything you like.”

“You forget the doting nanny who also took over my still room,” said Mrs. Coyner, but she laughed and said, “Perhaps you are right Mary. But Charles....”

Anne fought a smile and said, “My own sister Mary had a little boy recently. It is very hard to deny a pregnant woman anything she decides to do, when her shifting moods take her.”

No one was at all suprized to see Mrs. Coyner waddling down to the gunroom, her worried friends in tow. When Mr. Coyner said, with some alarm, that pregnant women should not be shooting guns, Anne grimaced and Mary made a cutting movement across her throat.

“Oh come now, Charles,” said Mrs. Coyner, with an edge of impatience, “you shoot every day. What should I not shoot?”

He mimed a pregnant belly. Unfortunately, he mimed rather too large of one. Mrs. Coyner burst into tears and let out something she had apparently been sitting on for quite some time, wailing that she couldn’t do anything, that she could no longer sit at her harp, and there was no amusement for her, none, and she would die of boredom before she ever reached childbed. The dogs flocked around her sympathetically.  

Mary glared at Mr. Coyner as Anne patted Mrs. Coyner’s shoulders and said, “There, there, my dear, he didn’t mean it.”

“I only meant you should not ride,” Mr. Coyner improvised. “Shooting targets in the courtyard-- there is a good winter’s amusement! I shall have my gamekeeper set it up!”

“Yes, what wonderful fun,” said Anne, soothingly. “Mary and I will try too, and you can laugh at how bad we are.”

Anne was dreadful. Mary was clumsy at first, but muscle memory kicked in and she rapidly improved. Though she did not always hit the center of the target, she always hit the target.

“Excellent aim, Miss Crawford,” said Mr. Coyner, a little surprised. “You have a very steady arm. Henry must take you on hunts at Everingham.”

“Yes, he does,” said Mary. “He’s squeamish about blood. I kill his foxes for him, and sometimes his birds. An unusual arrangement, but it pleases us both. I get the action, Henry gets the spoils.”

It was not an arrangement she had shared with anyone else, but she had seen Anne tremble and look pale. Mary angled herself away from the target again, and glanced over her shoulder at Anne before she stretched out her arm. Anne looked steadier, calmer, and the lines of tension around her mouth faded when Mary fired and hit the center of the target.

“Could you fire on someone?” asked Anne, as they rode towards the meeting place. “I am not sure I am capable of such an act.”

“Yes,” said Mary.

“But....”

Mary said, lightly, “I am not good enough to shoot to kill if that worries you.” Anne’s look of faint unease lingered; Mary forced a laugh and said, “Ah! I begin to understand you. You think me a better class of creature than I am. But let me assure you, the instinct that would cause you to die for a friend would cause me to kill for one.”

She was briefly afraid of Anne’s censure, but Anne merely nodded and said, “Oh, I am glad. I did not wish for you to do anything against your own sense of what is right because of my own weakness.” Then, seeing the brittleness of Mary’s wry smile, Anne added, softly, “No one ever considers men immoral or unnatural because they would kill to defend those they love.”

“No,” agreed Mary, and they they rode on in silence.

At the top of the hill, Anne said, “There’s someone--”

“Yes.” Mary could not recognize the man from this far away, and besides which, he was facing away from them, as he adjusted something on the harness of his dragon.

Anne and Mary were at first inclined to be suspicious; Mary called out, in French, “Sir, I beg you will move your beast. I am accounted a good horsewoman, but I should not like to test it by forcing my mare past a species of dragon I have never before seen."

The beast in question was a blue and white creature, small, but a little above courier weight. The man upon her wore a long leather flying coat, unadorned with embroidery, and if he wore a uniform coat, it was hidden. He sat untangling a long leather strap that jingled with harness bells, and looked up at them with a faintly sardonic air. “Miss Crawford, I presume?”

It had been said in tones as polished and aristocratic as any Old Etonian, though he did not precisely look the part. His features were a mix of the familiar and the Oriental, and, as he rose from the dragon's back, the green coat of the Aerial Corps could be seen under his leather flying coat. This put the gentleman into proper context. All the conflicting elements were easily united into the person of a dragon captain. Even Anne's manner became more easy.

Still, there was nothing lost in taking precautions. Mary rode down the hill, Anne behind  her, and stopped a good ten feet away. She said, in English, "If I am, you have the advantage of me. If not, then I have evidently interrupted a rendezvous to which I must admit much curiosity."

"You are very like your brother," said the captain. "Henry Crawford, of Nell Gwynn. He has thought to provide a letter of introduction, but as he wrote three lines, I cannot think it very reassuring. I can tell you that your brother said you were a pretty, talking, active woman, fatigued only by what she did not like."

He had produced the letter; Mary saw the familiar hand on the front and said, smilingly, "And all this you can determine from two sentences on my part. Well, I cannot deny that I am Mary Crawford, and my brother has unwisely turned dragon captain in our uncle's fashion. He always used to be sick when the Admiral took us aloft as children. I hope he is grown out of the habit."

"No," said Tharkay, with a twitch of a smile.

"A pity! But as Henry abandoned me in occupied London, I cannot help but be glad he is having an unpleasant time of it. Let me see the letter."

Anne looked over her shoulder as Mary read the not very illuminating, "Dear Mary, I am safely arrived in Northumbria, on patrol. This fellow is Tenzing Tharkay, captain to all the ferals that followed the dragon Temeraire from somewhere in Asia. I hope you and Mrs. Grant are not too uncomfortable. Yours sincerely, Henry."

"Captain Tharkay," said Anne, civilly.

“Miss Elliott,” said Tharkay, inclining his head. “I have the advantage of you as well; Captain Roland mentioned she had considerably startled you  upon your first meeting.”

"I think I met her in '06," said Anne. "I was... That is, the rector of my parish was the brother of her first lieutenant, a Frederick Wentworth. Excedium had torn a membrane somewhere so that he couldn’t fly, or something of the sort-- I am not sure entirely, but they made a very awkward landing in our sheep pasture near Kellynch Hall, and while Captain Roland and the surgeon were busy, Lieutenant Wentworth went to visit his brother. They were forced to stay nearly six weeks while Excedium recovered. My father was furious he had to house them all for so long a time.” This was more than Mary had even heard on the subject; she had heard every particular of the breaking of the engagement to some officer in the corps, Anne’s fears and guilts and regrets, but little of the happiness that had come before, or any detail that would enable Mary to determine the identity of the man who had so broken Anne’s heart.

After a pause, Anne said, “I hear he is now become Captain Wentworth of the dragon Laconia. She is a largish Yellow Reaper?"

"Indeed, and in Excidium's formation, still."

These proofs of identity satisfied both sides. Mary asked, "And which feral is yours, sir?"

"None of them," said Tharkay, dryly, "for all the obedience they render me, but this is Gherni."

"I had brought some chops for Volly, but I think Gherni will be equally pleased with them," said Anne. She made a show of rummaging for them, as Mary turned and pulled Lady Hamilton's letters out of her stays. As soon as Gherni had begun nosing the chop placed in the snow before her, Mary produced the letters seemingly from the air.

Tharkay raised a dark eyebrow but took them.

"If I may be so bold," Anne began, but trailed off, unsure of how to proceed.

Mary guessed the trend of Anne’s thoughts, and ventured to ask, "Not that we do not delight in a new acquaintance since our own circles have been so noticeably diminished, but Elsie and Hollins- they are well?"

"They are not dead," said Tharkay after a beat.

"Elsie can fly still?" asked Mary, alarmed.

"We are assured she will in three months time. A Fleur-de-Nuit mauled her badly."

"And Hollins?" Anne asked.

"Limping."

"What of Captain James and Volly?" asked Mary. "They have not also been attacked?"

"Reassigned."

"Scotland?" Ventured Anne.

"Farther."

Mary drew a wealth of inferences from this laconic reply, and began fearing the chances of a particularly stupid Greyling flying to Denmark in winter. She said, "I wish them clear skies."

There fell a brief, questioning silence. Anne was too polite to ask why then Tharkay had been assigned to then, and Mary too caught up in how to convey the news of a courier being sent to Denmark to Lady Hamilton.

Tharkay heard what they did not like to ask and explained, "Wellesley has assigned me this task because I used to do it for the East India Company, across much greater distances, and though much more treacherous terrain. Lady Hamilton's letters will reach their destinations while they are in my keeping."

“And the courier weights did not last until the cure was found, did they?” asked Mary, dragging herself out of her own thoughts. “Poor creatures. Captain James hinted as much, but I had not wished to ask outright. It would be so unpleasant to talk of.”

“It was unpleasant to live through.”

Mary could not find it within herself to keep speaking of such a subject. “I suppose you had no time to discuss contingency plans with Captain James. If there should ever be a blizzard, come to Copped Hall. I have given it out everywhere that I take daily rides to see my friend there, Mrs. Coyner, since she is approaching her confinement. The roads are usually clear up to her home, but we have discovered that her house is the edge of the Flame-de-gloire patrols. It is a quarter-of-an-hour’s ride over the hill to Copped Hall. Knock on the back door. She has only four servants in the house, and the one likeliest to open the door is drunk all the time and won’t remember you. If he does remember you, then he won’t be believed.” She had to force out the question: “What should I do if you are not here? I just kept the letters for the past two days. That is why I gave you so many.”

“You have done as you ought,” said Captain Tharkay. “You seem to take very naturally to this business, Miss Crawford. I have enough of an acquaintance with Captain James to know this plan could only be of your devising.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t take that as a compliment,” said Mary, flushing with pleasure, “but I do.”

It became almost pleasant to expect Captain Tharkay. He had a sense of humor so dry it could be decanted as sherry, and he always had a sardonic, reserved air, as if he found the rest of the world amusingly beneath him. As much as Mary had liked Captain James’s incessant good humor, she was too cynical to enjoy it without thinking him a little ridiculous. Captain Hollins had been a good sort of fellow, but awkward to talk to; Captain Tharkay’s reserve could sometimes hinder conversation, for he only liked to speak when he had something either clever or useful to say, but Mary soon discovered he was a ready audience for her wit, and was receptive of the more vulgar puns and _bon mots_ Mary could not say to her sister, Anne, or Mrs. Coyner. It was wit, as much as information, that made the occupation’s exasperating mix of tedium and anxiety more bearable.

Two weeks after they had made Captain Tharkay’s acquaintance, Mary was forced into using one of her many new contingency plans. Mr. Coyner had not been home when they had arrived, but knew they would be at the house. When he stepped into a partridge trap and hurt his leg too much to walk home, Epping Forest rang with his, “Hallo, Miss Elliott!”s and “Hallo, Miss Crawford!”s.  

He spotted Anne and Mary on the way to the rendez-vous point, before Mary could determine an alternate route. Though at first Mary feigned deafness to his frantic, “Hallo!”ing, he dragged himself so close to the road he could not be ignored.

“Mr. Coyner, what has happened?” asked Anne, in some alarm.

“Some damned poachers were getting my pheasants,” said Mr. Coyner, gesturing at the bushes behind him. “I went to dismantle their traps and stepped in one myself.”

“How badly were you injured sir?” Mary asked, trying to disguise her irritation as worry.

“Can’t walk on it,” he groused. “Lost my gun and everything. Can you ladies get me back? I went out without my groom or my gamekeeper.”

Mary would have happily left him, but before she could think of a reason to go onto the rendez-vous point, Anne said, “Of course-- we must get you back.”

Mary fought back a surge of frustration. “We shouldn’t leave your gun-- I’ll go find it.” She slid off her horse.

“Mary, it would be easier if you rode,” said Anne, a little sharply.

“Yes, but Mr. Coyner cannot walk.”

“He cannot ride side-saddle either.”

Mary began looking for the pistols in her saddlebags. “Yes, but I have stout boots and a new habit on, and, what is more, I have not broken my leg. I can very easily find what I am looking for, and return to you safely.”

There came a noise from behind her, a rustling of branches, a soft noise like footsteps deadened by snow. Mary’s heart beat painfully against the letters tucked into her stays. She carefully tucked the pistols into the pockets of her habit, and then walked calmly over to Anne.

Anne was looking at Mr. Coyner, making ‘wait there’ gestures.

“Anne,” Mary said, in low tones, fumbling at the lapels of her habit. “There are people behind us.” She pulled out the letters and tucked them in Anne’s saddlebag. “Ride like hell to the hill and make sure Captain Tharkay gets the letters.”

Anne stilled and turned very slowly to look behind Mary. A shot rang out.

Mary slapped the hindquarters of Anne’s horse and whirled out of the way before the brigands could even shout, “Stand and deliver!”

Mary’s own horse had bolted; Mr. Coyner was cowering in the snow off the side of the path, and had hidden himself in the bushes. Mary shoved a hand in her pocket, leather gloved fingers curling over the handle of her pistol. The cold of the handle seeped through the leather, chilling her fingers.

The brigand uncertainly cleared his throat. “I said, stand and deliver!”

“I am standing,” said Mary. She turned elegantly, with a modified _petit battement_ , in order to kick the train of her skirts out of her way. Two thin, shabby robbers stood before her, clumsy, knitted mufflers pulled up over their noses and mouths. In happier days, they must have been poachers, but there was not much to poach with dragons spooking all the wildlife in the forest.

There were noises behind her; Mary glanced over her shoulder to see a third robber, clearly the ringleader, looking exasperated.

Three men against one woman were not good odds; but one clever woman against one highwayman and two idiots were better. Mary said, calmly, “Well, you have spooked my horse and my friend. I am not sure what I have to deliver. You can try and catch the hose and keep it, but all the dragons have made her skittish and very fast.”

The two poachers looked at each other in mute astonishment.

The highwayman behind her said, “This is what I get for working with idiots-- I take it this is your first time being robbed, madam?”

“You do have the dubious honor of being my first,” said Mary, seeking to knock them all off kilter. 

One of the poachers  _blushed._ _  
_

So much for hardened brigands.

She turned so that the poachers were on her left, and the highwayman on her right. She kept her right hand curled around the butt of her pistol. “Traditionally it is, ‘stand and deliver, your money of your life?’ is it not? One hears things.”

“Indeed it is, madame.”

“Unluckily for you,” said Mary, “my money was in my saddlebags.”

The two poachers muttered obscenities.

“Yes,” said Mary, “I agree, gentlemen, we are indeed at an impasse.”

“What of Mr. Coyner?” asked the highwayman. “You and your friend were helping him-- boys, get to searching.”

“I doubt he’d bring money with him while hunting,” said Mary. “But you are welcome to search. I have nothing to over you except another witty remark, so I pray you, let me pass and make sure my friend did not fall off her bolting horse.”

The poachers began thwacking the brush in a manner that suggested they had, at one point, been reasonable skilled at startling pheasants from bushes. She watched them for some minutes, thinking, ‘It is so impossible to break old habits.’

Hm. That she could use to her advantage.

She scanned the road before her, trying to gain her bearings and determine where Mr. Coyner had pointed earlier. He had burst out of the bushes around where she had dismounted-- Mary scanned the snowy imprints of her passage-- there, about two feet to the right of the actual highwayman. The two poachers were still on Mary’s left.

Mary recalled the traps holding pheasants. Mr. Coyner had pointed... where? She closed her eyes. He had pointed behind him, hadn’t he? She swept her downcast gaze around the highwayman’s legs until she saw a thicker patch of branches than the others. Then, allowing some of her terror to bleed through, she kept glancing over at it as if fearful of Mr. Coyner’s safety.

The highwayman glanced at her. Mary jerked her head in the opposite direction saying, with a brittle cheer, “Will you let me pass, sir?”

The highwayman first pointed to the bushes Mary had been looking at, and directed his men to search there. Then he turned to Mary, pulling down his own muffler to say, “My dear madam, it has not gone unnoticed that your hand has been in your pocket the duration of our most intriguing conversation. Will you be so good as to give me whatever it is you are hiding? Then, and only then you may go.”

“If you say so, sir,” said Mary, with an attitude of false resignation.

One of the poachers had been poking at the brush with the butt end of his rifle, and he struck true; the trap broke, and a pheasant burst out of the underbrush, wings whirling, with a screech of “Kok-kok-kok!”  

The poachers gave way to habit and began immediately shooting at it. The highwayman turned to reprimand them. Mary pulled the pistol from her pocket, and shot the highwayman in the elbow. He fell, cursing.

Mary hid the pistol back in her pocket before picking up her skirts and bolting towards Copped Hall.

It wasn’t really good form to shoot a man from behind, but then again, it was even worse form to rob a lady of good breeding after her horse had bolted.

“You shot him!” exclaimed one of the poachers.

Mary accidentally stumbled in the snow.

“No, it must have been you!” exclaimed the other.

Oh, good. It was always delightful to find one had unintentionally sowed discord.

“Never mind which one of you idiots shot me instead of the pheasant,” snarled the highwayman. “She’s getting away!”

Mary’s breath was harsh to her ears, and she was no where near Copped Hall; she kept her eyes fix’d on the bright, trampled snow before her, floundering occasionally where the horses and Mr. Coyner had not flattened the drifts, allowing herself to curse only when stumbling through snow darkened by the shadows of the tree branches above. She ran into an unusually large shadow. Odd. Mary glanced up to see a pattern of blue and white that did not quite match the rest of the cloudy sky. She called up, “Starboard, ho!” before breaking off the path and rushing into the trees.

The men behind her were cursing loudly enough for Mary to have an approximate idea where they were. She ran far enough to be hidden from few before pausing, hands on her shaking knees, and gulping in deep, unlady-like breaths of cold air. A leather strap tumbled down before her, harness bells jingling faintly. Mary seized onto it, and with the one knot she remembered from her childhood, wrapped the strap around her waist. She tugged on the strap.

Gherni apparently took this to mean ‘all lies well’ and began pulling up Mary with remarkable speed. Mary clutched the strap tightly, anxiously scanning the ground as the wind from Gherni’s labored wingbeats buffeted her hair and nearly sent her hat tumbling below. Mary swung perilously back and forth as she grabbed for the hat, succeeding mostly in being raised up in the most inelegant manner possible, and causing Gherni, who had been wrapping the slack end of the rope around a forearm, to seize Mary in her back paws,

 Gherni passed Mary up horizontally to her front paws, and twisted to better set Mary on her back. Captain Tharkay pulled Mary up behind him by the leather strap around her waist. They were nearly vertical in the air, a position that was not entirely comfortable for Gherni. She broke her unsteady hover in favor of a smoother glide, and Mary had it in the back of her mind that riding a dragon was just like riding a horse, really, only once she was aloft, Mary amended this. It was like riding a horse if the horse could fly and drop you fifty feet to the ground. She wrapped her arms around Captain Tharkay’s waist in a death grip.

“How do I say ‘thank you’?” asked Mary.

“In what language?” asked he, amused.

“Oh, er, in Gherni’s. Though obviously, I owe you my thanks as well.”

He cupped his hands around his mouth to make a hollow, rumbling sound, like a purr.

Mary imitated this as best she could, while maintaining her death grip on both Captain Tharkay and her hat.

Gherni chirped her pleasure.

“You are welcome,” Captain Tharkay called over his shoulder.

“You should be on your way to Scotland,” said Mary. “Miss Elliot got you the letters, I hope?”

“Yes, and also told me that you were beset by highwaymen. It appears you had the situation under control.”

“More-or-less, but I am grateful for the assistance. Even though you ought to be--”

Captain Tharkay’s torso rumbled pleasantly against her arms with his chuckle. “You have an overactive sense of duty, Miss Crawford.”

“No,” she said, in a small, resigned voice, suddenly weary of putting up an unflappable front. “An amoral pragmaticism, merely.” Before Captain Tharkay could catch her at this weak point, however, Mary said, “Could you put me down at Copped Hall? It is not more than a mile, and a little to the right of the way we have been flying. I have lost any sense of direction. I am not sure if we are flying east or west.”

Captain Tharkay made a series of whistles, chirps, and clicks to direct Gherni, and then asked, “Where can I land?”

“The west wing, there.” She pointed. “There will be no one in that part of the house.”

They set down with a flurry of wingbeats that caused Mary to lose her hat. She pried her arms off of Captain Tharkay and, while attempting to dismount, discovered that her legs would not hold her. She slid off Gherni and onto her knees in a snowbank.

“Miss Crawford?”

She pushed herself up on trembling arms. “I am out of practice dismounting a dragon. I thought it was something a person could not forget, but I now recall that the axiom was about mounting horses, not dragons. It is not a good parallel.”

“No,” said Captain Tharkay, with a twitch of a smile.

Anne had ridden back, meanwhile, and sent off the gamekeeper to find his master. She abandoned her horse to the groom and came rushing up the hill to throw her arms around Mary.

“Oh my dearest Anne,” said Mary, clinging to Anne’s narrow shoulders. “I am glad you are come, I cannot stand on my own.”

“Are you hurt, Mary?” Anne cried.

“No, no, I just ran too far and too fast, and then flew on top of that. Can you bear my weight?”

Captain Tharkay dismounted, to help, Gherni trailing after them, apparently asking questions. Every so often she would pause and pick up a piece of statute or other abandoned rubbish, and Mary could soon distinguish the rise and fall of the whistle Captain Tharkay used to get Gherni to mind him.

“Anne go ahead and make sure there is no one in the kitchen,” said Mary.

Anne returned, panting a little, saying, “No, they are all gone to the stables, to wait for Mr. Coyner-- all except Mrs. Coyner, she is brewing a tissane in the still room-- and she wonders, Captain Tharkay, if you have any need for powder or shot, or even something to eat. I told her you rescued Mary. We must repay you somehow.”

“I did very little,” said Captain Tharkay. “Miss Crawford had the situation under control. I merely expedited the process.”

Mary liked him enormously for saying it. She was not used to people praising her competence, and found it a pleasant experience. She pressed him to at least take something for Gherni. 

Captain Tharkay was a little surprized by the repeated invitations, but saw he could not leave without Anne and Mrs. Coyner showing their gratitude, and admitted that it had been hard to find enough food for Gherni. Mrs. Coyner opened the game room at once and dragged him into it, insisting he take as many birds or deer or wild boars as Gherni needed.

Gherni was delighted. Though her command of English was not great, she knew enough to recognize the names of her prey, and she managed to squeeze into the kitchen, with scrabbling forepaws and fluttering wings causing the chairs to fly away and the stove upon which Captain Tharkay’s tea was boiling to burst into flames.

Gherni fell back with a squawk, beating her wings furiously to escape.

The flames leapt higher.

“There seems to be a great deal of smoke coming from the kitchen,” called Mrs. Coyner, from the game room. “Is everything all right, Miss Crawford?”

“Yes, just a perfectly normal oven setting itself on fire for no reason,” said Mary. She rushed outside, whistled sharply for Gherni, in the same rise and fall that Tharkay used to call her, and pointed at the snow. Gherni fluttered down, looking guilty.

“You cannot flap your wings that hard around an open flame,” Mary said, severely. “If Captain Tharkay were here, I’d ask him to translate. As it is, you must help me put it out.” She pointed at herself, and then at the dragon, before stooping to scoop up an armful of snow and throw it on the flames.

Gherni caught on and dumped so much snow on the oven it later took a very bewildered groom an afternoon to dig it out.

Captain Tharkay came running from the game room, and stopped abruptly in the doorway, as Mary shepherded Gherni out, with a couple of clicks and a great deal of ungrammatical English.

“I wear well in a crisis,” said Mary, primly.

“I had no doubt of that,” said Captain Tharkay, recovering somewhat. “How did you speak to Gherni?”

“I’m accounted to have a good ear,” said Mary, blithely.

Mrs. Coyner laughed. “Yes, and perfect pitch. Mary is very musical, Captain Tharkay. You should ask her to play the harp for you some time. Oh, Mary, I ought to have made some allusion to magic taming the savage beast, but I suppose it is too late for that now.”

Anne had been on watch, as ever, and came clattering down the stairs exclaiming, loudly, “Mrs. Coyner, it is your husband! He is back!”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Coyner, loading several braces of pheasants over Captain Tharkay’s gold epaulets. “Help me throw this boar into the snow.”

This was not easily accomplished, but as soon as Gherni was made to understand what they were doing, she reached in through the door, dragged the boar over to her, and wolfed it down in three bites.

“Oh, the poor darling!” exclaimed Mrs. Coyner. “You must let us know when she is hungry again, I cannot bear to see any animal going hungry, let alone such a pretty one.”

“It is gluttony more than starvation,” said Captain Tharkay. He clicked his carabiner onto the harness and was long gone before the cook could come running down the stairs looking for the tissane Mrs. Coyner had been brewing.

Report of Mary’s actions somehow made it to Lady Hamilton, who fortunately chose to call when Dr. Grant was busy in the Abbey.

“This is a surprise,” said Mary, hastily standing. She looked for a place to hide the novel she was not very proud to have in her collection, and dropped it into Anne’s sewing basket. Anne stood herself, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt.

“To-- to what do we owe this honor, Lady Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Grant, dropping stitches in her own work. She was considerably flustered. She did not know how to receive a person at once so notorious and so high-ranking, and was a little embarrassed that Lady Hamilton had heard some of Mary’s dramatic reading of Mrs. Radcliffe’s _The Romance of the Forest_.

Lady Hamilton glanced at Mrs. Grant.

Mary shook her head slightly.

“I am come to enlist your sister’s aid,” said Lady Hamilton, with an attempt at grandiosity. “Though we know each other but little, there are few ladies here that I would trust to assist me in this great hour of need.”

“... oh?” said Mrs. Grant, confused. 

“I have heard reports,” said Lady Hamilton, “which astonish as much as they please, and which display to good effect your sister’s ability to wear well in a crisis.”

“You flatter me,” said Mary, “I am happy to assist you.”

Lady Hamilton looked anxiously at Mrs. Grant. “Er.. it is.. it is greater service than has been asked of you in the past.”

“What exactly do you need my sister for?” asked Mrs. Grant, sharply.

Lady Hamilton swerved this direct attack and said, “There are many generals and marshals here not very close-mouthed, but there are... there are others that do not... care to speak to me.”

“I am not following,” said Mrs. Grant, frostily.

"It is the ladies who will not speak to me," said Lady Hamilton, not guardedly enough for Mary to ignore the hurt imperfectly concealed behind this bald statement of fact. "Never mind that I was received by two queens, one of them their own- if I was good enough for Marie Antoinette I ought to be good enough for that plaguey Empress and that horrid white beast. But it is them that has information that's the most help. Whose husband is where, what beast is broody over an egg, who needs linens washed up quicker because their husband is going North."

Mrs. Grant was speechless. Anne said, slowly, “Yes, I can see why you would ask this.”

"Am I respectable enough for the French ladies here?" asked Mary, a little skeptically. "My uncle was- and still is, technically- an Admiral in the aerial corps."

"All them ladies came over on dragon back," said Lady Hamilton. "It ain't like here in Paris. All them French dragons is respectable. They will like you for knowing dragons already but still being as well- bred as them."

“I suppose that was a compliment,” Mary mused. “I have to admit, I hate to be still.”

Anne said, a little fearfully, “But it is-- we already--”

“It will be nothing more than an hour or two of your afternoons,” said Lady Hamilton. “But it is--”

“No,” said Mrs. Grant. “Absolutely not. You will not endanger my sister.”

“Will you let the French be forever in London?” demanded Lady Hamilton.

“This war has already taken our brother,” said Mrs. Grant, though her voice was choked with tears, “and it may take Mary and myself, but it will not take her because you have not the talent of getting other women to like you!”

Mary moved at once to her sister and put her arms about her shoulders and pressed her cheek to her sisters. “Oh Martha,” she sighed, holding her tightly. “How good you are! How did I come to deserve such a sister?”

Mrs. Grant had been more mother than sister in Mary’s early years; she patted Mary’s hair and murmured nonsense as she might a child.

“But you must see,” said Anne, still slowly, “that we must do what is necessary to ensure the safety of others. Any information we gather could save hundreds of men in the field.”

“I can assure you, no harm will come to your sister,” said Lady Hamilton. “Not if she’s clever, which is is, and cautious, which she tries to be.”

“I am unmanned by such compliments,” said Mary dryly. She kissed Mrs. Grant’s cheek and murmured, “Let me hear her out, Martha. If the task is too onerous, I will decline. But I think it might be best if I do not drive you and Anne mad with my idle bad temper, and instead harness my energies for good use.”

Lady Hamilton smiled, relieved.

Mary’s blood sang at the promise of action. “What would you have me do?” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not terrifically pleased with this chapter, but I've been fussing over it for months, so here it is.

Daring and popular ladies took their cues from Napoleon's Marshals; dragons were no longer to be feared or avoided, but embraced. It was possible for women to serve openly in France, or to follow their husbands into battle. It was therefore the fashion for French women to take lessons in trick riding and aerial ribbon dancing from circus performers. It was a skill easily translated into riding on a dragon. It was all a question of balance and control; of precise movement and intuition; of grace and power.

Lady Hamilton had noticed this and said to Mary, "I can, of course, go on my own. But it is much different doing my attitudes on horseback than on level ground. I shall not be good at it at first. You are everywhere talked of as an excellent horsewoman, and you are much more respectable than I can hope to be. Them French ladies will talk to you if they will not talk to me. And, you know, you are very good at getting people to like you."

"I know," Mary said, with enough pomposity to be amusing.

“Napoleon means to look about Westminster Abbey,” said Lady Hamilton, smiling and relieved. “You can make the acquaintance of the ladies in the party then. Will Dr. Grant consent to play the guide?”

“Indeed-- oh, hallo, sir.”

Dr. Grant, coming into the room, stared at Lady Hamilton. “You are very welcome, I am sure.”

Lady Hamilton babbled some nonsense, and eventually got Dr. Grant to understand that she thought it her duty to warn her neighbors of the Emperor’s upcoming visit. He thanked her for the warning as Lady Hamilton dashed off, contenting himself with a mere, “Occupation makes strange bedfellows us of all-- figuratively this time, thank the good Lord.”

Mary was not inclined to explain to her brother-in-law how she had become the confidante of one of the most notorious women in London, and so merely looked puzzled and offered nothing.

The next day, after Mary and Anne returned from the woods, Lady Hamilton returned and ransacked their wardrobes, telling odd stories about her time as an artist’s model for Romney, and giving unsolicited advice about Bonaparte’s afternoon visit to the Abbey. Though Anne clearly did not like this new course of action, she would not allow Lady Hamilton to think of forcing Mary to go in alone.

“Two women draw less suspicion,” said Anne, with a wan smile.

Mary offered her a little rose salve, and discreetly pushed towards her a little pot of rouge.

“Ribbon red’d work, too,” said Lady Hamilton, “but mind you, Miss Elliot must look all natural-like. ‘Tis a better composition so.”

Mary’s lively dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general prettiness contrasted well with Anne’s pale, but very regular features, and her air of quiet refinement. Their styles of beauty were more complementary than contrasting, and shewed to best advantage as Lady Hamilton had arranged them. Anne was demurely attired, with a white lace tuck under a very long-sleeved gown of pink lawn, her hair very simply done up, and with a pair of garnet drop ear-rings as her only adornments. She sat a little to the side, waiting straight-backed on a piano bench, as Lady Hamilton fussed with Mary.

Mary had threaded a gross-grained mulberry ribbon through her dark hair, and put on a low-necked Turkey red gown that had grown a little too tight around the bust. She had a Kasmir shawl draped negligently about one elbow, and the other end was allowed to mingle with the folds of her muslin gown down to the ground. Lady Hamilton had at first urged Mary to wear her ruby set, but Mary had said, “Oh yes, that will make it magnificently easy to lean the harp against my shoulder,” and been permitted to wear the earrings only. It was entirely too dressy for a morning spent playing with Anne, but Lady Hamilton insisted that the men would not know it, or be very much alive to it.  It was then that Mary realized Lady Hamilton, for all her skills, had not the knack for impressing other women; had any women been present, they would have tittered and looked down on Mary’s outfit as inappropriate.

Mary sat at her usual, strategic place near a window, cut down to the ground, opening on a little lawn, surrounded by snow-dusted evergreens. A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, was very engaging; and Mary had always so perfectly framed herself the effect was altogether striking. Lady Hamilton had a good eye for color. The contrast between Mary’s gown, and the evergreens through the window, had the compositional aspect of a painting.

“Can you play in that gown?” asked Anne, a little uncertainly, when Lady Hamilton had flitted off. “I do not recall your wearing it before, and it seems more suited for walking about a drawing room than sitting before a harp.”

The gown was in an older, simpler style, with tight sleeves down to her elbows, a little train, with the neckline low, and the beribboned waistline high. It was of a very suggestive simplicity. “It is a regretful fact, Anne, that I am grown fat and lazy in town. I am sure I could play in this gown three years ago-- though you are right, this ensemble is almost entirely unsuitable for afternoon callers.” Mary put her hands to the strings and managed to play her scales with only a little more difficulty than was her wont. “There. I ought to trust my dressmaker, she knows I play the harp and always sews my shoulders accordingly. I think I could play the harp in any gown she had made me, except for my court dress or my riding habit.” Then, with an attitude of forced gaiety: “You know Anne, I have been struggling a little while with unpleasant self-knowledge. When I recall I am inclined to be selfish and manipulative, I make efforts to correct it, but I fear most of the time the habits are so ingrained, I cannot eradicate them. I am not sure to be dispirited that Lady Hamilton put me precisely where I always sit myself, or pleased that I have saved her the trouble of moving all the furniture. Is it a bad or good thing that I seem naturally to take to espionage?”

“I think it must ever be considered a good, to be of service to one’s country,” said Anne, slowly, moving through her scales herself. “Recollect that the actions a man might take in serving his fellow citizens are not always suited for ones of our sex. We cannot judge ourselves on standards created without us in mind.”

“But it requires of me the actions and the habits of thoughts that...”

“You must not let one man be your moral authority,” said Anne, quietly. “That sort of knowledge only comes from within.”

“With me, it does not,” said Mary. She tried to echo one of Anne’s scales, but went sharp. “I did not have the benefit of your upbringing; your mother set you a good example, and there was Lady Russell to plunge into the breach. My aunt was a very good sort of woman, and did her best, but I was so often around aviators, at so young an age, I do not... I have not....”

“Then allow me to be your guide,” said Anne, smilingly. “A flat, not sharp--”

“Ah, yes, I was forgetting.”

The descending scales flowed much more easily after the piano's.

Anne continued, “You harm no one, Mary, and so long as you keep a watch on yourself and do not cross the bounds of propriety, I cannot think it wrong in you-- wrong in either of us-- to assist Lady Hamilton in this fashion.” Then, teasingly, “What do you consider wrong, Mary?”

“Getting caught.”

Anne waited with an expectant air, thinking Mary had not finished.

Mary was abashed and said, “I suppose-- the injury of innocents, that is always wrong. Adultery I see as so common a fact of married life I think it a wrong one must live with, but I think--I should not engage in it myself.”

“There you are,” said Anne, smiling again, “you know what is wrong, and that is a fair way to knowing what is right. You may know it by contrast.”  

“Yes, but you had me thinking, my dear Anne. I sin when I am not thinking.”

It was then that Bonaparte and his court burst in. Apparently, the Emperor of France did not much care to stand on ceremony, unless it was at his own court. The visit was over almost as soon as it had begun. Someone burst into the room and spoke in french too quick for Mary to follow. Then he left, striding down the hall calling for a priest. The man Mary now knew to be a prince came into the room and cast an admiring eye over Mary.

Mary pushed her harp upright, and stood to curtsey herself.  A woman in an aviator’s unifrom peaked in and said, in pleasantly accented English, “We do not mean to disturb you ladies. The Emperor wishes only to see the Cathedral.”

“My sister’s husband will be glad to shew him the Cathedral, I am sure,” said Mary, allowing herself to look faintly skeptical.

The woman (thank God) had either been educated with other women, or had spent a great deal of time with them, for she caught all of Mary’s subtle signals-- her slight hesitation, her skeptical look, her stance slightly behind the harp, as if to guard herself with it-- and smiled reassuringly. “Perhaps you might persuade him, madam? I assure you, no harm will come to you or your friend.”

Anne got up jerkily, and came forward to tuck her hand into the crook of Mary’s arm. Mary turned to her and whispered into the curls by her ear. “Speak only to the lady, if you can.”

Mary had not ordered so wrongly. She fancied that they came off as frightened, but brave, willing to be obliging, and properly mannered. Mary did not have a large role to play, since Lady Hamilton swanned in, tugging Mrs. Grant along like a tugboat pulling a sinking man-o-war to shore. Mrs. Grant clearly wanted no part of the proceedings, but calmed somewhat when Mary approached and murmured in her ear. “This will pass, Martha. They want to see the cathedral and then they will go.”

“And what will you do?”

“Nothing today, dear one.”

“I still do not like it,” said Mrs. Grant, without much heat or strength. But she said all she ought, and clung to Dr. Grant’s arm in front of the Emperor.

Dr. Grant, having been prepared by Lady Hamilton’s visit yesterday, was at his best. Well, not precisely his best, thought Mary, as she and Anne trailed after Dr. and Mrs. Grant through the cathedral. Dr. Grant was at his best at institutional dinners. Giving lectures in a cathedral could not bring out the same expansive bonhomie. But he was entertaining enough, and did not mind when the rather average-looking man in the messy aviator’s clothes interrupted with a torrent of strangely nasal French.

“You have trouble with the Emperor’s accent, medames?” asked the female captain, smiling at them. “You must not worry. It is Corisican. It was hard on the ear for me for the first year I served with him.”

“Have you served with him long then?” asked Anne, politely, and this subject carried them through most of the tour.

“Making friends again, Lisette?” asked Murat, cheerfully. He had seemed rather amused with them, since Poet’s Corner, when Mary and Lisette Bellcourt grew lively over their similar childhoods near dragon breeding grounds.

“Oh yes, Marshal,” said Lisette, with a quick, happy smile. “It is as I told you. There is much the same between our two nations.”

“I think you will be glad of their friendship,” said Murat. “Nearly the first day of the occupation, they prevailed upon Gustav to help them go visit a friend of theirs nearing the end of her confinement.”

“Oh so it was--” Mary cut herself off and looked at him with a wide-eyed, slightly confused look. She took extra care to make her French sound terribly British. “Oh I am so sorry, Your Highness. I would never have been so insolent had I known--”

“I am glad you did not know, then,” replied he, with a rougish smile. “How is your friend?”

“She is well, Your Highness-- or as well as can be expected. She is always very glad of her company. Men are not of great help towards this stage of confinement.”

Napoleon called out something, and Murat left them, after bidding them good day, and making a point of winking at Mary. Mary was not sure whether or not she was pleased with this. To have the good opinion of a Marshal was all well and good-- as long as the opinion was not too good, and Mary found herself forced into a flirtation.

Lisette rolled her eyes and said, “He must flirt! That wretch. Well, I am pleased to have met you both-- perhaps you will come meet my dragon, Fructidor?”

Fructidor was a charming little Poux-de-Ciel, very proud to be one of Napoleon’s couriers. She ate a muffin out of Mary’s hand, and declared hereslf well satisfied with the day. Mary herself was not satisfied until Lisette turned cheerfully to her and Anne and said, “Perhaps you both might come to Astley’s Amphitheatre tomorrow noon? We are a merry party then.”

“What do you do at Astley’s?” asked Anne, a little more relaxed now. “I did think they had all fled north.”

“They have,” said Lisette, “but we use their ampitheatre to practice maneuvers. I do not know if you would like it, Miss Elliot, but I think you will very much enjoy it, Miss Crawford.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Mary began to protest, but Lady Hamilton swooped in like an avenging angel and insisted, very, very loudly, that Mary would be delighted.

And Mary was. Far more than she liked, really.

It was glorious fun to be about ladies with similar educations and experiences as her own, and to be active and doing was a particular delight. The exercise was unusual, true enough, but she took well to the tricks on horseback, and as she carefully refused any aerial work for the first week, she did not badly shew herself up. Then, too, the French ladies were at their most anxious to please. Mary had thought a great deal about what note to sound, and felt smug about how well it resonated. She assumed a cool air, forced her smiles when she did not press her lips together, and spoke rarely. She sent enough signals it became obvious to all the ladies present that Mary was there under duress and would have refused to come if Lady Hamilton had not forced her. But it was equally important that Mary shew some susceptibility to the Empire’s charm, and so Mary occasionally let loose a surprised laugh when Lisette had said something particularly witty, and made sure to shew her real pleasure in riding.

Napoleon and all his officers were fond of-- Mary hesitated before naming the term even in her head, but could find no better than-- seduction. Lady Hamilton had said as much, as had the few other demi-mondaines Lady Hamilton had enlisted. The popular ladies were either naturally gifted at the prevailing strategy of their government, or had learnt to be so. As soon as they saw Mary’s resistance to their charms, their immediate object was her capitulation.

After the first week, Mary began to gave in, and began this careful surrender by trying to cultivate little private jokes with people other than Anne (who, poor dear, had learnt to keep her seat extraordinarily well on horseback, but had not learned much else). Mary made a great shew of relaxing and smiling more, and when Lisette insisted on introducing her to Madame Woo, who taught the French ladies acrobatic tricks with ribbons, Mary agreed to try and go up.

The most lasting joke happened the the day Murat showed up, looking for Lisette, so that he might send a report back to Paris. In the course of trying to overhear their conversation, Mary turned over one time too many and found herself in a knot.

“What are you doing?” asked Madame Woo, through a translator.

“Nothing I ought,” said Mary, hopelessly entangled. “Pray, how might I say that?”

The translator giggled, but gave Mary as good a translation as could be managed. Mary was musical and could well imitate the tones of the translator's voice, even though she did not at all understand what was being said.

The Chinese ladies and gentlemen all laughed, and it became a running joke, whenever the European ladies had gotten themselves tangled, or had somehow found themselves upside down, or could not pull themselves up, to reply in badly pronounced Mandarin, “Nothing I ought!” to the sound that meant, “What are you doing?”

She and Anne were joking in this manner to Lisette and Captain Dupin one day outside the theatre when Gustav came by, and invited them to take tea with Madame Lien and the rest of her forces the next day.

Anne uncertainly thanked Gustav for the invitation, but looked to Mary before accepting. Mary was at some pains to conceal her eagerness for this meeting. Though she and Anne passed on all the gossip they had heard, it all sounded very useless-- Madame So-and-So is on the outs with her husband because he had not written her from Spain, Mademoiselle Thingummy was in distress because her fiance had been killed by rogue English dragons engaged in guerrilla warfare. There was a much better chance of finding something sensational at one of Madame Lien’s parties.

Lady Hamilton was at first inclined to be disgruntled that Mary had secured an audience, where she had not, but then a Flame-de-glorie came down the road, spitting fire, and Lady Hamilton shrieked. Mary, having spent her formative years in coverts and around aviators, merely got out of the dragon's way and inclined her head at the dragon's greeting.

This mollified Lady Hamilton and she was able once again to speak more calmly of duty and etiquette.

“There is a question etiquette cannot supply,” admitted Mary.

"What?"

"What does one wear to meet the Chinese Celestial responsible for the successful invasion of your country?"

Lady Hamilton had no answer. Tharkay, when he was gaily questioned, had only vague notions.

“A... friend of mine,” he said, a little haltingly, in a way that cause Mary to think he referred to Captain Laurence, “has more understanding of these niceties than I, for he met the dragon Lien at many different courts.”

“Court dress then,” said Mary, deftly steering the conversational barque away from dangerous shoals. “Though I suppose that varies so much from place to place. I quite envy you your ability to travel, Captain Tharkay. You must have had the most magnificent adventures.”

And so he had, though he was not very apt at describing them. Mary could tease out a witty description or two, but Tharkay was not a man of prolonged stories. He did not like to have all eyes upon him unless he was doing or saying something to discomfit. Even so, Mary liked him immensely. Perhaps, she sometimes thought, when more than the cold caused her cheeks to flush, she did like him more than was advisable or proper. But what of it? There was nothing in it. Just enjoyment of the company or someone clever and handsome, who treated her as an equal, and who could be relied upon to help her out of any of the tricky situations in which she might find herself. It was simple battlefield camaraderie. Nothing more.

 

***

 

“I confess to being somewhat nervous at making Madame Lien’s acquaintance,” said Mary, adjusting the hang of a curl. “I cannot think myself equal to the honor bestowed upon me.”

“She is all graciousness,” said Gustav. “You need not fear her.”

"You are sure my dress is appropriate?" Mary displayed it. Anne had wisely advised Mary to avoid all white, as that was the color of mourning in China, and Mary had thought it best to avoid any shade of green that might remind Lien of the aerial corps. The French aviators wore black and gold and it had been the subject of much debate between Mary, Anne, Mrs. Grant, and Lady Hamilton if Mary was supposed to emulate or avoid them.

Eventually Mary had decided that money was invariably the solution to their problem and had gone at once to the dressmaker Captain Dupin had suggested. For a prodigious sum of money (offset by Lady Hamilton), Mary purchased some other lady's court dress and had it re-tailored. It was of beige Chinese silk with printed patterns of crysanthamums, with a long train and an embroidered ribbon tied around the high waist, the ends left dangling in the front. Mary paired with this a pair of long white gloves, white silk stockings, and kid slippers dyed to match the gown. The dressmaker draped a long silk shawl over Mary's shoulders, and a thin printed scarf about her arms.

"Very close to Empress Josephine's dress when she saw off Lien and the Emperor," the dressmaker had said.

Gustav nodded his approval. “Here is the relieving line- I will leave you with Lisette."

Anne's nerves had not been up to the ordeal of meeting Lien and, any road, she was suffering from the terrible cramps that came with her usual monthly compliant. Mary had pressed her, but not very hard or for very long, and had to admit to herself that Anne would not have done well in this particular situation. Outwardly Mary was calm and cheerful, gossiping happily with Lisette about Lieutenant Saint-Merri's furious politicking to be present at the hatching of a Papillon-Noir egg recently laid. After ten minutes of this, they were finally presented.

Lien was an extraordinarily elegant dragon, the long white coils of her tail as neatly curled about her back legs as the train of a grande dame. She wore a silver headress adorned with sparkling crystal, and rubies that matched her glowing red eyes, and had an enormous diamond sparkling at her breast. Lien inclined her head with a musical chime of silver and crystal.

Almost involuntarily, Mary sank so low to the ground she nearly crouched instead of curtsied.

"I present to you Captain Mary Crawford, niece of Admiral Crawford," said Lisette, cheerfully.

"Miss," corrected Mary, in English. "We have very few female captains in England, dear Lisette."

“In China, all our fighting companions are female,” said Lien, in perfect, drawing room English.

Mary was embarrassed by her over-formal French and her three phrases of Mandarin. She murmured something, she knew not what, indicative of her surprise.

Lien said, “The fashions of Europe seemed at first to me indecent, but the women have striven to dress closer to the Tang Dynasty, and this gives me great pleasure. It is only your people are a century and a half behind."

"In terms of integration with dragons, certainly, Your...." Mary hesitated and glanced to Lisette.

Lisette looked puzzled.

Lien said, graciously, “You may refer to me as Madame Lien. I understand you grew up with dragons.”

“Near the Irish breeding grounds, Madame Lien.”

“Have you flown yourself?”

“Many times, Madame Lien.”

“As a companion?”

“No, Madame Lien.”

Lien lost interest at that and cordially hoped that Mary would enjoy herself. Mary did not see Lien again until the end of the party, as Marshal Murat kept forcing himself into Mary's conversations and attempting to lead her away from the group to have half-an-hour's private conference. Mary merely smiled bashfully and pretended her French was much worse than it was, so that she had a blameless excuse for not understanding him, and stuck to Lisette like jam to a child's dirty fingers. Still, as she left, Lien cordially invited Mary to an evening party at the end of the week, where Lady Hamilton would be striking her famous attitudes.

“I must learn some words of Mandarin,” said Mary to Tharkay, the next day. “Something more than, ‘Nothing I ought,’ and numbers up to ten. But I cannot say whether or not it would show folly or wisdom in seeking out a tutor from among Lien’s compatriots in London.”

Tharkay was surprised, though all he did to show it was raise an eyebrow. “From whence comes this linguistic yearning?”

“I have met Lien,” said Mary. It was impossible not to say it with an air of triumph, even though she had not learned anything of real value. “I intend to cultivate the connection as much as I can.”

“Ah,” said Tharkay, looking almost impressed. “I knew you to be a remarkably talented woman, Miss Crawford.”

“You might be a little more surprised,” said Mary, feigning disapprobation.

“I am not surprised by anything you do, Miss Crawford,” replied Tharkay, in his dry, amusing way. "Perhaps I may be of assistance? I am tolerably fluent in Mandarin and Cantonese."

Tharkay was perhaps not an ideal tutor, but he was clever and sarcastic and quickly determined the turn of Mary's capricious intellect. Fifteen minutes of his corrections and tips often served Mary far better than five hours of continual repetition.

Mary grew quite cheerful with such a pattern to her days: a ride to Epping Forest with Lady Hamilton’s correspondence in the early morning, followed by a Mandarin lesson with Captain Tharkay, followed by an invigorating lesson at the Amphitheatre on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and nice, chatting afternoons with Anne and Mrs. Grant. For the first time in her life, Mary thought she passed her hours not only irreproachably, but entertainingly.

“If only I could get Marshal Murat to stop flirting with me,” she told Tharkay one day, “I should be deliriously happy.”

Tharkay’s swift glance at her over Lady Hamilton’s letters was pleasantly bracing. “He has not....?”

“Oh no,” Mary hastened to assure him. “He just hangs about at the Amphitheatre, staring at me, and if I ever go out in the evenings-- which is rare-- he eavesdrops on my conversations. We have not yet reached a dangerous point. I know how to stop a man who wants to lay a hand on me. My aunt taught me when I was very young. And I am not very likely to be taken in by someone I am spying on.”

“Are you certain of that?”

Mary laughed. “I know seduction, Captain Tharkay! You may report to Henry, or to whomever else worries for me-- I doubt it is Henry-- that I cannot be taken in. I know all their tricks, and can ably deploy them myself.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. Seduction is all about possibility and challenge, and grows very uninteresting once the desired party has given in. It is ostensibly the object, that final surrender, but that is unsophisticated thinking. It’s the pursuit that people enjoy-- a narrative of slow and gradual weakening, with a rally or two to make it more interesting-- it is not the capitulation on the part of the seducee, but the demonstration of skill by the seducer that interests."

"An unusual take."

"I am right," said Mary, adjusting the tilt of her usual riding hat- a black top hat, banded with a red scarf, with one black ostrich feather curling over the top. A glance from the ground upward, toward the face of a gentleman, from under the brim of a tilted hat, was a more modern version of an unveiling, giving an impression of intimacy or favor where none existed. Mary tried this on Tharkay and was amused to see a brief look of confusion flash across his lean, handsome face, as if he knew she was making some point, but could not derive from it her thesis. Mary smiled. "The imagination satisfies and yet whets desire more effectively than anything in actuality. I need only drop a few details to make these imaginings feel more real- to hint or insinuate, never to state. When there is a little pleasant mental effort towards ones stated goal, one goes away satisfied."

“You are oddly trusting of me, Miss Crawford, to tell me so much of your methods.”

Mary let fall her pose, and said, laughingly, “Yes, but I think you know something of what it is for very stupid old men to look at you and then immediately treat you like an imbecile child.”

Tharkay snorted. “That is true enough.”

“Besides, your mind works in a similar way to my own. You seem to take particular joy in the reactions you deliberately provoke in others.”

“That is no very great reflection on your own character, I am sure.”

“It is something I would prefer to deny about myself, true enough. But I must thank you, sir-- I feel very cheerful about the party this evening. Even if I don't guess the classical figures Lady Hamilton is evoking, I shall be able to ask very simple questions in bad Mandarin, and that shall make me seem acceptably clever for a lady."

***

Mary spent more time worrying over her dress for the one informal party in Lien's pavilion than she usually spent worrying about her ball gowns. Still uncomfortably aware that white was the color of mourning in China, she veered to its opposite. She settled on adding detachable black net under sleeves to a black gown with a velvet bodice. A little poking about in Anne and Mrs. Grant's chests uncovered enough black netting to add a diaphanous over skirt to the bottom of the velvet bodice. The effect was on the elegant side of coy, with all the enticing propriety of a veil-drawing attention to something purposefully hidden. Mary added to this black gloves, and a pair of diamond earrings that always caught the light most attractively. She was well satisfied with her ensemble, and discovered, upon her arrival at the party, that her judgment had not erred.

By wearing black, Mary had the added benefit of looking as if she were not only in mourning and but also opposing Lady Hamilton, and a clump of ladies present under duress immediately recognized her as one of their own. Mary knew how to manage this group. She spoke in bitter whispers of Napoleon’s desire to see Westminster, and Lady Hamilton’s bullying, and confessed to being frightened for her brother. The ladies passed around all the gossip they had managed to gather and Mary was able to make certain connections she had not before. All the ladies fell silent when hey were addressed by any of the assembled gentlemen, which the gentlemen did not much mind. Men, Mary thought, always liked to hear themselves speak. The most useful lie a woman could utter was, "That sounds so interesting! Do tell me more."

Several of the gentlemen had already seen Lady Hamilton's attitudes, or seen Madame Recamier's versions of them, but they kept up a loud buzz of excited chatter on that subject. When an artist the likes of Romney, and an author the likes of Goethe had both praised a woman and featured her prominently in their art, she must be something very astonishing. Mary had seen Lady Hamilton's poses once or twice before, in various drawing rooms, but they had never before been on so striking a stage.

Lady Hamilton wore her long chestnut hair loose, and had on a loose-fitting white muslin gown and a long white shawl, which she arranged about her in multiple folds. The real genius of this act was not Lady Hamilton's beauty, grace, or acting ability (though all were good), or even the combination thereof; it was her ability to convey any number of classical figures or famous paintings or statues by the clever arrangement of limbs and shawl, and the addition of one or two props. The guests would fight to correctly guess the pose first, to show off their classical knowledge and to earn Lady Hamilton's blithe smile before she flowed gracefully into the next pose. Lady Hamilton reveled in this fame, and swanned about the crowd in her simple white gown as a living advertisement for her coming performance. Mary caught her eye and tilted her head at a likely looking copse of trees, slightly removed from the pavilions. Lady Hamilton nodded.

"I have heard you has caught the eye of someone,” said Indiana, one of the French ladies Mary had befriended.

"Her Grace, Madame Lung Tien?" Mary tried to ask nonchalantly. out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lady Hamilton moving towards the trees.

"It pleases you to mock at me but you must have noticed,” said Indiana. “Lisette probably did not, but Lisette is... Lisette. She has never had any flirts. Nor is she interested in having any. Marshal Murat makes such a point of speaking to you.”

“I wish he wouldn’t,” Mary said irritably, before she could catch herself. Then she added on, uncertainly, “I had no notion he was married. I am very sorry--”

“Ah,” said Indiana, with a wink. “We do not mind these things as much.”

Mary minded dreadfully. She let her displeasure shew, and excused herself.

Unfortunately, after Mary had made her report, Lady Hamilton had the same disagreeable observation to make.

“I never asked for his attention,” said Mary, much vexed.

“But you have got it,” replied Lady Hamilton, “so we should use it.”

"I am trespassing enough as it is," said Mary. "It would have been better if they did not know of my existence at all. I could visit Mrs. Coyner--"

"And have the guards stop you every time?” Lady Hamilton shook her head. “No, it is necessary to cultivate Marshal Murat.”

“I shan’t be the one to do so,” riposted Mary. “I am an indifferent gardener.”

“I never thought to find you so spiritless.”

“I never thought to be a party to adultery, urged on in the guise of patriotism,” hissed Mary.

Lady Hamilton, who had been married (though not to Nelson), and who had been at several terrifically unpleasant dinner parties with Lady Nelson, was understandably offended by this. She demanded to know just who Mary thought she was, and by what right she could judge, and, any road, why she was willing to let the French have control of England forever.

“I am only unwilling to sleep with a married man I do not care for. If you force this issue, then I shall quit at once. I will be nothing more than a courier. You can find another way of gleaning information from the French ladies.”

"Miss Crawford--"

But Mary was already gone, and buried herself  once more in the knot of captive Englishwomen. Lady Hamilton was not willing to leave off the argument. Later in the evening, seemingly in the spur of the moment, she seized Mary by the wrist and pulled her up and onto the raised platform where she had been striking her attitudes.

It was not pleasant to be pulled into a pose without warning, but before Mary could really protest, she had been pulled backwards onto a divan.

Mary resisted; Lady Hamilton produced a fake dagger and pressed it to Mary's throat, and Mary unwilling let herself be moved down, until her back pressed against the seat of the divan, and her head hung over the edge.

Nothing so fatigued and irritated Mary as doing things she did not wish to do. She held herself tense with thwarted fury, the fake dagger pressing  against her thundering pulse. Lady Hamilton managed to arrange Mary's limbs to her satisfaction whilst rearranging the fall of her shawl, so that for a moment Mary felt a flash of instinctive panic that she was helpless beneath the knife of one in an imposing attitude.

The moment passed; Mary recalled that the knife was made of paper-mâché, and after all her aerial training, she could easily knock over Lady Hamilton. If she wished to make Lady Hamilton ridiculous she could "accidentally" slide off the divan. But before Mary could act on any of this, people were already guessing.

Medea was wrong; Abraham and Isaac was laughing tossed out and just as laughingly rejected; then came Murat's voice: "Brava Iphegnie. Permettez-vous?"

Lady Hamilton smiled prettily and moved back, and Murat came forward to Mary's rescue.

Her blood all turned to ice; she could not breathe.

Mary realized what was happening.

Lady Hamilton was forcing the issue.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Mary was distracted. She rode well past the meeting spot, coming only to herself when Anne, now recovered from her monthly troubles, trotted down the hill saying, "Mary?"

"Over here Miss Crawford," said Tharkay. "It is indeed easy to mistake a spot you have been used to go to every day for two months."

Mary turned her horse's head around. She could think of no witty defense, no way to save face. She put a hand to her fichu.

“You are distracted this morning, Mary,” said Anne. “Whatever is the matter? I know you did not get back ‘til late.”

“No, it is not sleeplessness, though you are good to suggest it.”

Captain Tharkay looked at her with something close to worry.

“Has something happened, Miss Crawford?”

“Yes but--”

Mary and Captain Tharkay were plunged into sudden darkness.

They did not at first understand what was happening. There were only confused thrashings and roars overhead; Mary's horse tossed its head and became nervous, even though it was used to the sight and sound of dragons and had on a nosebag, and Anne immediately dismounted before she was thrown from her horse entirely.

"I do believe there is a battle overhead," observed Tharkay.

"However could you tell?" Mary asked, equally dry, as above them a small flock of Poux-de-Ciels shouted orders and acceptances of orders to each other in rapid French. Mary looked up; two or three more were zooming over from London.

Gheri chirruped and whistled; Tharkay made similar noises and then said, "Poux-de-Ciels against a Yellow Reaper. A Reaper should not be so near London."

"Not unless it has been captured," said Anne, from where she sat behind Mary. Her horse had been tied to a nearby birch tree. Anne was staring up; a golden wing poked out of the clouds and was immediately harried and torn at by the newly arrived Poux-de-Ciels.

Gheri whimpered unhappily.

"Captured and trying to escape," translated Tharkay, as the Yellow Reaper burst away from the clouds and the cloud of French dragons to sweep low to the earth, not five miles from where they were. A solitary figure dropped from a Poux-de-Ciel onto the Yellow Reaper. The Yellow Reaper roared with joy and wheeled around, headed for Dover.

"A brave captain," murmured Mary.

Another few figures attempted the same leap; three made it. The last waited until the Yellow Reaper was far away from the Poux-de-Ciels- too far, thought Mary, her eye trained from afternoons at Astley's Amphitheatre- and leapt despite the signal flags suddenly raised from the Yellow Reaper's back.

"What are they signaling?" Anne murmured.

"It has been so long since I was near a covert," hedged Mary, uncomfortably trying to dismount her horse.

Tharkay was less inclined to spare Anne unnecessary worry. “It says, ‘Do not jump.’” He watched as the last figure arced through the air, missing the Yellow Reaper entirely. "A little late for that."

The Yellow Reaper was above them, wheeling around desperately, crying, "Frederick, we have lost Musgrove!"

Anne’s horse bolted. Mary was very nearly thrown off of her mare; as it was her dismount was not graceful, and only did not result in injury because Tharkay moved forward quickly enough to catch her. Though she would not admit it afterwards, Mary clung to Tharkay’s neck with a decided lack of bravery as the Yellow Reaper seemed likely to fall upon them.

A voice above them declared, “We must go, Laconia-- the Poux-de-Ciels are upon us again!”

The Poux-de-Ciels returned in a swarm and latched onto Laconia’s wing, tearing the thin membrane; Laconia roared her distress. Momentum carried Laconia forward  so that she did not land on them. Anne ran up to the top of the hill; Mary hopping out of Tharkay’s arms to follow inelegantly after.

“You will forgive the impropriety,” gasped Mary, hiking up the skirts of her fashionably long riding habit (Anne’s was of a more sensible cut, and there was no excess fabric to keep Anne from dashing up the hill).

“Certainly-- Gherni!”

But Gherni had buried herself in a snow bank without their noticing and stayed perfectly still, only her eyes moving across the sky, to see the course of the Yellow Reaper and the Poux-de-Ciels overhead. She plainly refused to go. Mary spared the little dragon only a glance as she neared the top of the hill.

“They are boarding Laconia,” cried Anne. Mary shaded her eyes and looked in the direction of Anne’s pointing finger, in time to see the harness straps entirely falling away from the Yellow Reaper. Laconia turned madly in the air to try and catch all the crew members who had jumped aboard, but managed only to toss them into Epping Forest as a Flame-de-Gloire and a Petit Chevalier flew forward to take her hostage.

“Run, Frederick!” Laconia cried.

The Petit Chevalier landed and let her crew dismount and run into the forest not five miles from where Anne and Mary stood.

“Tharkay, you must go,” said Mary, fumbling with the buttons of her riding habit. “I have Lady Hamilton’s letters-- and there are French officers about--”

“Gherni has told me in no uncertain terms that she knows her place, and will not be going anywhere in the big dragon’s territory,” Tharkay said dryly, from the bottom of the hill. He was consulting a colored map. “I may as well try to assist my fellow officers in that case. What are you doing, Miss Crawford?”

“Getting out Lady Hamilton’s letters,” said Mary, “though I think it may be better to keep them at this juncture.” Unwillingly, she said, “I keep them in my stays. Anne pointed out the likelihood of my horse one day growing displeased by the proximity of so many dragons, and running off with my saddlebags.”

Tharkay tracked down Mary’s horse with almost infuriating ease, and tossed Mary into the saddle. “Can you bear Miss Elliot behind you?”

“I have never tried, but we have been learning all sorts of tricks at Astley's Amphitheatre,” replied Mary. “I did not shew to advantage just now, but I think I could manage it.”

Mary's horse was whickering its distress but Mary pulled tight the nosebag Lady Hamilton had given her, and stroked the horse’s neck. “What is our plan?”

“To get to Musgrove, the fallen lieutenant,” said Anne, allowing Tharkay to toss her up behind Mary.

“But it is the captain whose safety we must ensure,” protested Mary.

“Laconia’s captain will go to Lieutenant Musgrove,” Anne said, with such conviction Mary could not argue.

“I will find Miss Elliot’s horse and follow,” said Tharkay. “The officer fell near to Elizabeth I’s hunting lodge, if my map is to be trusted.”

“Do be careful,” said Mary. “I have one courier’s life on my conscience, and I cannot bear another. My conscience is too newly formed to bear any very heavy transgressions. Hold on, Anne.”

Anne put her arms around Mary’s waist and clung desperately as she was jolted about. Mary’s horse was still nervous and jumpy, leaping higher than was necessary, having to be forced around trees. It wearied Mary considerably to keep her balance, but they managed. Anne was soon saying, low, in Mary’s ear, “To your right, Mary-- the branches are all broken on the trees.”

Mary reigned in her horse carefully enough, though the horse would toss its head and champ nervously at the bit.

Still, the broken branches did not look as if they would crack entirely and fall to the ground. Mary approached more cautiously.

“There!” said Anne in her ear. Anne had been seated in so unsteady a fashion, it was easy for her to slide off the horse and make her way through tree branches and snow banks to bits of color rising out of a nest of snow and twigs. It startled Mary to realize it was a person.

“Hold, Anne, we do not know who else might be here,” said Mary, looking for a fallen log or a tree stump to aid her in the dismount.

Seeing this accomplished, and the horse patted and soothed before its reins were tied to a tree branch, Anne said, “I think it is clear; I have seen no other movement but ours, and this area of the woods looks to me relatively flat. There can be no one hiding on higher or lower ground.”

Mary was busy with the contents of her saddlebags, and did not immediately reply.

“Mary, have you been riding with a brace of pistols this whole time?” asked Anne, somewhat alarmed.

“Why have you not?” asked Mary. She was clumsy in loading them; she had not loaded a pistol since she was a girl, and when she had been given a gun in the rare hunts Henry held at his estate in Everington, there had always been a servant to load for her. But still, the task was accomplished by the time she was finished saying, “I am less apt to be trusting, Anne. We should feel a dragon upon us before we heard it, the way the French organize their attacks. If you will not take the other pistol, walk with your back to mine. That way we will not be surprized.”

Anne was startled, but, as she was a sensible woman and good in a crisis, she followed orders. They had got up the hill and Anne had reached for the fallen lieutenant, when Mary heard her horse snort.

“Anne, get down.”

Anne dropped to her knees at once, and began doing as best she could to clear debris and check on the lieutenant. In her state of heightened awareness, Mary observed, with an internal laugh, that though Anne had not taken a pistol, she had taken Mary’s smelling salts and was fumbling with the cap.

Mary had not lowered her pistol since she had loaded it; she quickly turned it towards the noise. Her horse was anxiously pawing the ground and tossing its head, trying to see behind it. Mary could make out a figure with an upraised branch--

“Show yourself,” said Mary, sharply. “I have a pistol trained upon you, sir. It you think of stealing my horse--”

\--the branch was a sword?

“He’s armed,” hissed Mary.

Anne threw herself over the fallen lieutenant.

Mary said, “ _Monsieur, laissez-nous tranquilles. Je vous jure, nous sommes des demoiselles de Londres, et pas des voleurs ou des espions_ \--”

“What, of London? God save the king.” The man lowered his sword and moved from behind the horse. He was a tall, handsome officer of the aerial corps, with gold epaulets on the shoulders of his green coat. His boots were muddy and his hair disheveled, his carbineer dangled, and the sleeve of his coat had torn-- it seemed Anne had been right, and the captain had come in search of his fallen officer.

“Yes, indeed, for I have heard the king has much need of help.” Mary saw Anne trembling out of the corner of her eye. “It’s alright-- he’s an officer of the king. I am lowering my pistol.”

The officer said, “I thank you for it, ma’am. I am looking for--”

“For your lieutenant?” Mary gestured. “We have found him.”

“Her,” corrected Anne, softly.

“Her,” said Mary. “You need not look so conscious. I am Admiral Crawford’s niece, Mary Crawford.”

He approached them at once. “Captain Frederick Wentworth, of the Yellow Reaper, Laconia.”

“A pleasure,” said Mary, moving aside a little. “This is my friend, Miss Anne Ell--”

“We have met,” said Anne, not looking up. She was still bent over Lieutenant Musgrove, and had at last managed to uncap the smelling salts. There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but Lieutenant Musgrove’s eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death.

“We have only just got here,” said Mary. A glance at Anne was enough for Mary to determine the kindest thing she could do for her friend was to draw attention away from her. “We saw you fighting overhead-- I do wonder at your lieutenant's having jumped when you signaled at her not to do so.”

“No, it is no wonder; my junior officers are so sorely wounded by the retreat and invasion they are bent on glory. I should have taken better care to check it when I suspected--” Captain Wentworth shook his head, saying, bitterly, “And this after her brother, my midwingman, died of brain fever at Gibraltar! The Musgroves must think I have a vendetta against their children.”

The smelling salts worked, however, under Anne’s patient application.

Lieutenant Musgrove’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again without apparent consciousness. But this was enough for them; Mary said, involuntarily, “Oh thank heaven!” and Captain Wentworth passed a hand over his eyes.

Anne stiffened. Mary was unsure of the cause until she saw the shadow above them herself; Mary swirled about, training her gun upwards, and Captain Wentworth raised his sword.

“Miss Crawford, hold, it is one of ours,” came Tharkay’s well-bred voice. Mary spared him enough attention to see that he had found Anne’s horse, before she looked to the dragon above.

The dragon was midway between the size of a Greyling and a Yellow Reaper, and made an ungainly descent not five feet from them, in a very small clearing. It was an odd-looking beast, pale gray, with brown markings and a large red patch over half its face and neck, and obviously unused to harness; it ignobly dropped its captain onto the snow by accident, and did not much care to set the man to rights again.

Captain Wentworth, at least, paid the newly arrived officer some heed. He lowered his sword, crying, “Benwick! By God, I am heartily glad to see you, and gladder still I exerted some influence for you to be made captain of the ferals. Lieutenant Musgrove is fallen from a great height, Laconia captured, and my crew scattered in the woods.”

“Arkady!” exclaimed Tharkay, or something very like, and then began chattering to the red-patched dragon strutting importantly about in the snow.

Arkady ruffled up the collar of spikes round his neck and pranced over to Tharkay, saying something in smug, satisfied tones.

“You told Arkady to drop you?” asked Tharkay.

The hapless Captain Benwick struggled to his feet and whistled high and low. “That is how to ask him to land, is it not?”

“No.”

“But Gherni and Hertaz both told me so!”

Arkady let out a draconic croak that must have been laughter, very satisfied in his prank.

“Gentlemen, Lieutenant Musgrove is grown cold,” called Anne.

“Lady Hamilton’s letters first,” said Mary. “Those must be sent to Scotland--”

“No, a doctor,” said Anne, a little exasperated.

Conscious of her own thoughtlessness, of the unthinking set of values which caused her to rate more highly several close-written letters than the life of a human being, Mary said, abashed, “The Laconia’s surgeon-- surely he--”

“Fetch Laconia’s surgeon and then take the letters,” said Anne, and as Captains Benwick and Wentworth both scrambled to Arkady. “No, Benwick,” said Anne, impatiently. "Captain Benwick must fetch the surgeon, if he can get his dragon to mind him, and if not, it must be Captain Tharkay.”

“Dr. Farraday was not far behind me,” said Captain Wentworth, pointing, and Captain Benwick cut out the troublesome parts of the journey by merely running towards the surgeon.

Anne continued, “Captain Wentworth, as you are the strongest, you must help me shift Lieutenant Musgrove. I know we ought not move her too much if there has been an injury to the brain, but if she is found in this coat--”

“Yes-- yes--” Captain Wentworth floundered back over to Anne’s side and helped raise Lieutenant Musgrove out of the snow, as Anne and Mary did their best to get Lieutenant Musgrove out of her coat and into Anne’s cloak.

“Will you not be cold, Miss Elliot?” asked Captain Wentworth.

“I shall make do, as ever,” said Anne. “I am glad of the snow; I think it has kept her limbs from being very much injured.”

“If I might suggest a compromise,” said Tharkay, mounting Arkady himself, “now that you have changed Lieutenant Musgrove’s coat, allow me to take her to one of the coaching inns near Loughton. Miss Crawford, Miss Elliot-- if one of you will stay here and the other will come with me, riding below--”

“Yes, so Benwick and Dr. Faradiddle or whatever his name was shall not be too lost,” said Mary. “I shall go, my horse is more accustomed to being close to dragons. And, you know, Anne, I think I am more up to the task of bribing innkeepers. Ride back to the main road and then towards Essex, away from London. I think _The Grape and Grain_ is the most respectable; find us there.”

If Mary had ulterior motives for volunteering, Anne and Captain Wentworth were too caught up in Lieutenant Musgrove’s head injury to notice them. And, Mary reasoned with herself, these were much more benign reasons than her usual ones.

At _The Grape and Grain_ Mary rapped the door with her crop, and made a great deal of fuss over not being properly attended so that no one noticed the dragon landing behind the inn. The innkeeper, Mr. Harlow, was effusively apologetic; custom had been scarce since the invasion and he recognized Mary as Mrs. Conyer’s friend. His wife waited upon Mary herself, and led her immediately to the best parlor.

As soon as the door was shut, Mary turned to Mrs. Harlow and said, prettily, “I am so sorry for all the fuss, but I shall reveal all-- are you and your husband loyal to the king, and true?”

Mrs. Harlow hesitated, but considered that Miss Crawford was niece to an admiral-- not a very respectable admiral to be sure, but an admiral none-the-less. “Indeed, ma’am, we are.”

“Good, for I must ask you to do something potentially dangerous.” She pressed a guinea into Mrs. Harlow’s hand. “As Miss Elliot and I were riding today, we saw a band of French dragons attacking a division led by a Yellow Reaper. The officers--”

“Where are they Miss Crawford? We can have the sledge harnessed--”

“I am delighted to find you of such ready understanding, but that is not necessary. One of their fellows on a courier brought the most injured man here.”

Mrs. Harlow’s understanding was good, and the gold spurred her into a certain quickness of mind. She at once appraised her husband of the plan, and kept the few servants at the inn busy in the kitchens and stables. Mrs. Harlow herself shewed Captain Tharkay up the servants’ stair. He carried Lieutenant Musgrove into the inn’s second best bedroom, where Mary stirred up the fire with considerable energy.

“I bespoke the first, as well,” said Mary, jabbing at the logs, “but that faces the main thoroughfare and I thought it best not to be seen.”

“I shall consign her to your care.”

“I wish we did not have to wait,” said Mary, backing away from some sparks flying at her long skirts. “Anne is better suited to sickrooms than I. My first thought was for the letters, not the lieutenant. What shall we do with them? You haven’t any for Lady Hamilton today, do you?”

“Fortunately, no.” Tharkay and Mary took each others’ places without much thinking of it. Mary performed all the tasks she had seen Anne do earlier, and Tharkay sat and warmed himself by the fire.

“I think it best if Captain Bennick flies on immediately with the letters,” he continued on. “Arkady can fly a much greater distance bearing him, than bearing me, and if I ask Arkady, it shall be accomplished speedily enough. Arkady is interested only in fighting and prizes; that is why he abandoned a post some miles away upon hearing a Yellow Reaper roaring.”

Mary was not sure whether or not she ought to undress Lieutenant Musgrove and instead just tucked her more firmly into bed. “Good. If we are out much longer, I shall need to send a note to my sister.”

“And Lady Hamilton?”

“No, I am not engaged at the Ampitheatre today, and there are no parties or lessons or whatever else she feels I must go to. I made it clear enough that I would not be going to any if she-- well! She will not think it amiss if I do not see her, and only appear behind her house at a quarter past seven tomorrow morning, to pick up her letters.”

Tharkay had caught that Mary and Lady Hamilton had quarreled, but as Mary deliberately undid the buttons of her redingote and pulled out her fichu, to better take out Lady Hamilton’s letters, he was soon distracted and had no opportunity of vocalizing such a newly fleeting thought.

There was noise in the private parlor; Mary tidied her appearance and opened the door to see Captains Wentworth and Bennick, holding up a limping man whom Mary took to be the surgeon.

“Where is Anne?” asked Mary, anxious.

“She is out front, distracting everyone,” said Captain Wentworth. “There is no one so capable as Anne; I would not have thought it.”

Mary kept to herself the joint observations, ‘ha! and everyone always talks of Anne’s influence on me’ and ‘so it is ‘Anne’ and not 'Miss Elliott!’’ and said, instead, “Come in, quickly, Lieutenant Musgrove has not woken up again.”

Mary left the aviators to their business, and talked in loud tones with Anne, who had come up the stairs, flushed, her hair falling prettily about her face. Together they made a great deal of noise with the cold meats and bread the servants brought up, odered far too many pitchers of hot wine at the top of their lungs, and declared nearly in shouts that it was bitterly cold, riding had been terrible, they were famished, etc.

They did not fall silent until five minutes after the servants had left.

Anne was now pink instead of red, but her hair was still mussed. “They are safely in?” asked Anne.

Mary tilted her head at the second best bedroom. “Yes. Shall we bring them something to eat?”

This was speedily accomplished, for they were worried over Lieutenant Musgrove’s condition, and both of the mindset that holds it an unquestionable good to confront fears with facts. They could not talk of their distress, they could only act, and perform such actions as they thought might do some good.

Lieutenant Musgrove was not dead, but was unconscious and had fractured a leg in several places. The surgeon had broken his ankle and was glad to nurse one of the pitchers of hot wine, as well as the lieutenant.

“Benwick, one of us must go with the letters,” said Tharkay, from his position by the fire. “The other must alert Captain St. Germane-- she is the officer in charge of the offensive in this area of England--” this to Mary and Anne.

Captain Benwick said, “Arkady is here, and Gherni is not-- perhaps I had better take the letters.” He did so, and passed by Anne and Mary-- not without saying first, “I-- well-- you both were-- very heroic! A heroic couplet!”

Mary did not laugh at this tribute, though she was sorely tried, and Anne said, with infallible gentleness, “I thank you, Captain Benwick, I am sure any woman would have done the same.”

“I doubt that,” said Mary, not loud enough to be heard. She instead watched Benwick flush and unconsciously demonstrate to the room at large that Anne’s style of beauty was very much to his liking. Captain Wentworth noticed this and was a little surprised; he thereafter looked at Anne more attentively. He seemed to see something that pleased him, and that he was ashamed to find pleasing, for as soon as Anne turned to meet his gaze, he immediately turned away.  

“We shall be in the parlor,” said Mary. “Let me know what else we may do to help, or if I should bespeak more rooms.”

When they were alone again, Anne said, wonderingly, “Captain Benwick looked at me so oddly.”

“Heroism suits you,” said Mary, brushing hair out of Anne’s face. “If I were a man, I am sure I would look at you exactly the same way as Captains Benwick and Wentworth do.”

If Anne colored at this last, Mary did not mention it. She said, instead, “Anne, I think I had better break my ankle. I know you will not like leaving Lieutenant Musgrove--” or Captain Wentworth, Mary added to herself “--but we must give some reason for our staying at this inn. There is one concern I have-- do you think you could still ride and pick up Lady Hamilton’s letter tomorrow at the right time? I could give it out that I needed you to go pick up some linens or something of the sort.”

“Certainly,” said Anne. “I am not... gifted at drawing the attention of everybody, as you are, and I think it will be easy enough for me to carry the letters, as long as it does not snow all night.”

“If it does, merely bring them here, for I think Captain Tharkay will stay at the inn this evening,” said Mary. “Perhaps I had better twist my ankle instead; it shall ensure me a shorter recovery, and I do not like to make you ride entirely on your own for very long.”

Anne confirmed the diagnosis, and Mrs. Harlowe agreed, nearly shouting on the landing, “Well and is it a wonder you were in such a taking, Miss Crawford, with your ankle the way it is! No need for a surgeon, I have seen many a twisted ankle in my day, and know how to tend it!”

If Mrs. Harlowe was not a great actress, she at least commanded unquestioning obedience from her staff. They quite understood the impossibility of Miss Crawford leaving their inn, and understood the great likelihood of getting a shilling or two if they helped her. Helping her consisted mostly of ‘bringing Miss Crawford a great many pillows and some linen bandages, and then leaving her alone with a novel by Fanny Burney’ and they were so good at this necessary bit of service, everyone in the inn soon had some tip from Miss Crawford’s newly slender purse.

“You shall have to ask Lady Hamilton if she has any ready money,” said Mary, examining the contents of her purse. “I am glad I had the foresight to equip myself with as much coin as I did.”

“Of course,” said Anne. She went to the window and looked out at the main thoroughfare, deserted but for a fine coating of slush too far for the Flame-de-Gloires to reach in their usual rounds. “I think... I rather think I should go back to London.”

“I beg pardon? I was not attending.”

Anne turned, newly flushed and said, “I have never said-- I must make you understand-- I have... I was very surprized by the events of this afternoon, and I have a particular reason for being so surprized, though it has not been a thing much discussed between us.”

“You know about Edmund Bertram,” said Mary, wryly. “I am not so circumspect as you. Shall I now know about....”

Anne looked to the door of the second best bedroom.

Mary said, as gently as she knew how, “No names need pass our lips, if it upsets you.”

“It is something between misery and delight, seeing him again,” confessed Anne, still looking at the door. “But all is-- all is confusion when I have not... there is no task left for me, I cannot be as indifferent as is necessary.”

“I do not demand your indifference,” said Mary. “I demand pistols at dawn in Hyde Park with the captain-who-shall-not-be-named for leveling so many unjustified charges against you. If you will not allow me that, then the Inns of Court--”

“Oh do not be flippant, Mary, I beg you,” said Anne, with a flash of real feeling.

Mary fell silent, surprized. There were tears in Anne’s eyes.

“I cannot stay,” said Anne, when she had regained some measure of equanimity. “Not now-- I need only a little time for reflection. I shall ride into town. There are no dinners or parties this evening, Lady Hamilton could not have gathered much information today.”

Mary agreed to this; Napoleon and Murat were both absent from London, investigating the problems of supply that had lately plagued them, and there would be no chance to gather anything. She cautioned Anne to be careful, to go ‘round the back of Lady Hamilton’s townhouse, avoiding the evening patrol, and to take good care of herself. “Your convenience gives way so often to everyone else’s I think you are not always inclined to take as good care of yourself as you ought.”

“In leaving, I am doing so,” said Anne, in a low voice. “My feelings have not altered, but I think his....” Anne cleared her throat. “Well! He was a lieutenant when we met. And now he is a captain. It is natural his feelings altered. He has seen so much activity and so much society. And I so little-- perhaps... perhaps it is equally natural... though even with the increased activity of the war, my feelings... it is better I go, and do not cause pain to myself.”

Mary repressed the urge to be flippant, as she usually was in times of great distress or unhappiness, and merely patted Anne’s hand. This gratified Anne’s feelings, and, after drying her eyes on one of the bandages from Mary’s pile, she was able to ride off with greater composure.

It was a bad business, reflected Mary. A baronet would not have allowed his daughter to marry an aviator, particularly one who had not been made captain. Lady Russell would have been distressed beyond measure to see Anne Elliot throwing herself away on a man of no name or fortune, and a disreputable profession. Then, too, Lady Russell would object to Anne’s being forced to live in all the marginal towns that cropped up around coverts. Mary had not been unhappy in them, but, then again, Mary had been brought up to that sort of life. Anyone of gentle birth would be horrified at the self-imposed exile of one of their own to Halifax or Dover.

Mary was still thinking of Anne, and not the novel open on her lap, when Captain Wentworth tentatively knocked on the door from the second best bedroom to the parlor.

“It’s safe,” said Mary. “Relatively.”

 Captain Wentworth emerged and looked about (involuntarily, it seemed, for Anne) before saying, “We are indebted to you, Miss Crawford, to you and Miss Elliot.”

“I wish Miss Elliot was here to hear you say it,” said Mary. She looked at her novel, seemingly absorbed in Miss Burney’s attempt at transcribing a French accent, to appear more nonchalant as she said, “Miss Elliot is my dearest friend in the world, and is so effortlessly competent, she is often overlooked. She is gone back to London, for it looks as if it will snow tonight. It has put me in a very melancholic mood, for I am grown very dependent on her society.”

“One easily grows dependent on Miss Elliot’s company.”

It was difficult to decipher Captain Wentworth’s tone without seeing his expression. Mary glanced up from her novel; he had his back turned from her and was leaning a forearm against the mantle, as if to examine the tear in his sleeve. Mary shifted in her chair, and managed to see him in profile.

Aside from some whiteness about the mouth, his expression signified nothing but reserve. Captain Tharkay came out, saying, “Miss Crawford, I take my leave of you.”

This was most distressing; Mary half-rose from her chair saying, “Captain Tharkay! You cannot think of flying now, the afternoon patrol comes this way in a quarter of an hour! Indeed, I am sure they will patrol rather more than usual, looking for Captain Wentworth and his officers.”

“I mean only to go feed Gherni. She will not move as long as she thinks there are other, larger dragons about.”

Mary flushed, uncomfortable to have shewn her feelings so, and sat down again saying, “I do wish you would take more care. I still wake up at nights over what befell Elsie and Captain Hollins.”

Tharkay seemed almost surprized (why everyone should be surprized by anything anymore nearly surprized Mary). “You need not worry about me, Miss Crawford.”

Mary said, melodramatically, “But I do, Captain Tharkay! I cannot think it very gallant in you to make me do so. It is very unpleasant to be left with nothing to do but imagine all sorts of dreadful eventualities. And, you know, I cannot be active when I have put out that I have twisted my ankle. I was depending upon you to entertain me.”

“Heaven forbid you be forced into reading,” said Tharkay. He had assumed his usual, sardonic mein, no doubt reassured by Mary’s return to playfulness. “I shall leave you to Captain Wentworth and Dr. Farraday; I trust they will not be very dull.”

Captain Wentworth smiled a little at that. He was not dull (though Dr. Farraday was, for his ankle really was paining him). Captain Wentworth was lively and good humored, told a good story, and was surprisingly well-mannered and informed for an aviator. Mary could see why Anne, who needed only an opportunity for bravery to be the marvel Mary knew her to be, had so pinned her happiness on a man whose whole remembered life seemed to be one of action and adventure.

Mary found herself trying to needle him, a little, wanting him to be as discomposed as Anne had been earlier. At the news that Captain Benwick played the flute, Mary said, “Well! A male flute-player! Or is the word flautist? It should be; captains of the Aerial Corps must flout convention wherever they go.”

Captain Wentworth’s bright eye gleamed with humor. “I am surprized at your being Miss Elliot’s friend, Miss Crawford. I would think you too lively for Lady Russell’s taste.”

“I believe I am,” said Mary. “Far too lively, and tainted by my uncle’s profession, but Anne and I went to school together, and Anne has, in the past year or two, learnt to trust more in her own judgement than Lady Russell’s. Besides, we both were at the point of engagements that did not come off, due to the interference of our relations, and there is nothing to unite a friendship better than similar disappointments.”

Captain Wentworth’s easy manner vanished; his handsome lip curled and he said, with implacable, cold politeness, “Indeed? And did she mention the name of her fiance?”

Mary pretended to be interested in writing down a dinner order and looked at the paper instead of him. “No, she is too delicately bred for that. I only know that she initially renewed our friendship because he was an officer in the Aerial Corps, and she hoped to have some word of his progress through me, and she wished to be assured that she had done the right thing. At the time of the engagement he had no dragon. It is a very uncertain world for aviators without dragons, or without a father or uncle in the Corps. Indeed, I think she did the right thing by allowing her fiance to plunge himself into dangers without fear of what might happen to her. Marriage to aviators is always a tricky business. What if their dragon should not like you? Of you should have no friends among the crew, or with the wives of the other officers? No, I think it wise not to commit yourself until you know yourself equal to the very particular challenges of such a life.”

She pretended to be writing for several moments, waiting for her barbs to sink in, before continuing on in the same, breezy manner, “Poor Anne! She would sacrifice everything for those she loves, but she cannot bear to think of anyone having to sacrifice anything for her! I am convinced that if she had not thought she would be little more than an expensive millstone around the neck of her lieutenant, she would have married him. But, as it was, she could only think that she would ruin his career and impoverish them both.” Mary’s eyes slid from the paper to the polished candlestick holder to her right. Captain Wentworth’s reflected expression was drawn, as if he were suddenly pained and having trouble concealing this fact. But, soon enough he began to look angry and Mary added, all her spite presented as false sweetness, “It must be so uncomfortable not to have money.”

“I imagine it is not something that has troubled either you or Miss Elliot.” It had been said with extreme coldness.

Mary looked up and said, with an expression of feigned surprise, “Certainly I have not, but Anne has. My parents are both dead, and I have had command of my finances and my fortune ever since I was of age. Anne received her pocket money from her father and little else. I could not even tell you if Sir Walter had set aside very much for her dowry. She is wholly dependent upon him.”

“And so money was her concern--”

“Poverty was her concern,” Mary said, unable to keep the annoyance from her tone. “My dear sir, I cannot tell if you have been slighted, or if you have Jacobin leanings,or merely disdain any talk of housekeeping, but please do realize that women are governed by economic necessity more than men are. If you were to lose your dragon, you could easily find another profession. Miss Elliot must rely on the earnings of men to keep her. Should she slide from her position in society, there are very few professions open to her, and most of them are both disreputable and disagreeable.”

Captain Wentworth was much struck by this, but did not wish to let his anger abate. He was on the defensive. Mary returned to her paper and studied him from under lowered lashes. She could not decide whether it was better to send him snarling out of the room, to stew over this new information, or to insist upon her point before he went away. Before she could decide, Captain Wentworth said, “And has not Miss Elliot education enough to make do on a small budget? Or at your boarding school, were you taught only to please?”

With equal coldness, Mary said, “It is the lot of women everywhere to be educated in how to please--not themselves, but all others around them. There are a few, carefully learnt precepts that will earn you the general approbation of all, but as you grow older, you realize that you cannot please everybody. And it is a common enough mistake to try and please those in control of your finances above any six week acquaintance.”

Anne’s choice had never been presented to Frederick in such a manner; he looked momentarily doubtful before continuing on on his theme of Anne-should-have-learnt-to-be-happy-on-no-money. “Surely Anne had enough....”

“Enough what, pray?” asked Mary. “Enough money to marry where she wished? Hardly, when her profligate father had her dowry to spend as he wished. Though I do not think I could marry purely for money, as I once did, I know well enough that money immeasurably aids domestic happiness. And what would she do if her husband was never promoted? Support her children on a lieutenant’s salary? And with a wife and a family to support, would not such a lieutenant be more responsible, and less willing to take the risks which lead to promotion? What cares would be added to the mind of her husband! How much more difficult his life away from his family would become!” Mary shook her head and looked directly and pointedly at Captain Wentworth. “As I told you, sir, Miss Elliot will never allow the suffering of those she cares for, even at great cost to herself. If she broke this man’s heart, it was only with the object of making his life easier.”

Captain Wentworth abruptly stood, said something indecipherable, and then strode off into another room.

‘I hope I did not err in my judgement,’ thought Mary, brushing the feathered end of the quill against the underside of her chin, and was lost in musings of this sort for quite half-an-hour.

Tharkay returned so noiselessly with his baggage and other effects, that Mary half jumped from her chair.

“Miss Crawford,” said Tharkay, with a smile.

“There is a bird on you,” was all Mary could stupidly think to say. “I hope it is yours.”

“Indeed it is,” he replied, moving the hooded kestrel from his hand to the sturdiest looking chair in the room. “I have been reassigned. Captain St. Germaine is desirous of getting back Laconia. And, as I am the only person to have successfully broken out a dragon before-- or, at least, the only person to have done so who is not leading guerrilla forces in the north of England-- I am here. Benwick will come for your letters, at the usual spot.”

“I do not recall if I told you I have put out that I have twisted my ankle,” said Mary, “and bought all the rooms at the inn, and insisted that the innkeepers wait upon me themselves. I am enjoying being so insufferable, and glad, too, that the best bedroom faces the road, so I can keep it for myself.”

Tharkay did not look as admiring as Mary could have wished, but nodded, satisfied with her actions. “How is Captain Wentworth?”

“In troubled spirits,” Mary temporized. “Will you sneak into London this evening?”

“Not in this snow,” said Tharkay. “Laconia’s wing membranes had ripped; she will not be able to fly in this weather, if she can fly at all.” He poked through the greasy dinner plates (as yet uncleared) and found some gobbets of chicken. These he fed the kestrel, while continuing on, “I shall need your eyes once your ankle has healed; they will put Laconia in Hyde Park.”

“I live very near there, it is no difficulty to locate her.”

“We must let her know Wentworth is here-- we must keep him here and not allow him into London. I can plan what is next when we know how badly Laconia was injured. Can we move Lieutenant Musgrove to your friend’s house?”

“Who, Mrs. Conyer? Her house is in such disrepair, and she has so few servants that she could easily hide any of Laconia’s officers. The difficulty would be only in moving Lieutenant Musgrove.”

Tharkay acknowledged this and spent some time feeding his kestrel, who did not care for cooked meat, and had to be cajoled into eating.

Mary shifted in her seat and stared at the logs in the fire. She wallowed in her silence.

“What is troubling you, Miss Crawford?” asked Tharkay, eventually.

“Why should anything be troubling me?” asked Mary, with a habitually false smile. “The French have captured a British dragon and we must hide her officers not ten miles from London.”

Tharkay’s silence was speaking.

Mary cast about for an almost truth that might satisfy him. “You may not care about all the half-finished sentences Miss Elliot and Captain Wentworth have been scattering about each other, but they have a powerful effect on my spirits. They were once engaged, though Anne broke it off, on advice from her godmother. Captain Wentworth-- then Lieutenant Wentworth-- said some horrible things to her as a result, and yet she loves him as much as she ever did. I do not think he shares in her feelings. It is a painful situation. If I could be cheerful, knowing what I do of officers of the corps and their proclivities for lieutenants over ladies of quality, and knowing too, how deeply Anne still loves Captain Wentworth, after all hope is gone, I would be not only a wretched friend, but a much more corrupted soul than even Edmund Bertram accused me of being.”

“Strange you should be so prescient,” he said, idly, his attention all on the kestrel, “that you should be distracted and in want of spirits even before we saw the dragons overhead.”

Mary had no witty retort nor could she simply smile and assert the contrary. Instead she was silent.

Tharkay could be silent as long as she could, if not longer. He made low whistling noises to the kestrel, and set about tidying and mending the kestrel’s leather lead. Mary was at last so nettled by the silence she could not keep from habit and filled the air with seemingly artless prattle about Astley’s Amphitheatre and the French ladies there. Without noticing it herself, Lady Hamilton's name rose to her lips whenever Mary had to speak of risks or danger or attention from the French officers.

“Miss Crawford,” said Tharkay, when she had finished a not very funny anecdote of being nearly thrown from her horse when Lady Hamilton distracted her, “what is it Lady Hamilton has asked you to do?”

Mary summoned up what liveliness was left to her and said, “Why, nothing she has not had to do herself. That is the measure of a good general according to the French. Indeed, it is a good general precept.”

Tharkay hooded the kestrel and took the chair nearest her. “Miss Crawford, you and I both know we are in peculiar positions. Invasion may have brought us more respect than we have previously been afforded, because our particular skills are now so necessary to those who had previously disdained us. But after this is all over, our actions will still be counted as sins against us, even though they were done for the benefit of those who will hereafter sneer at us.”

Mary was too distressed to quip. He had gotten rather nearer the truth of the matter than she was comfortable admitting.

“I cannot put aside the veneer of civilization even a moment or else risk being called a savage forever.”

“You know I may venture towards the borders of propriety,” said Mary, with difficulty, “but I have never crossed them. I left my uncle's house when his mistress moved in and would do so again, I ensured the presence of a chaperone whenever a gentleman has tried to court me, and even now, spying, I do it in the least scandalous way open to me. I gossip with the ladies at the Amphitheatre and carry notes for Lady Hamilton, but...”

Tharkay raised an eyebrow.

Mary could not hide her distress. “Lady Hamilton has made it clear my scruples, pitiful as they are, mean nothing to her. She will have information from Marshal Murat, whatever the cost.”

She saw Tharkay immediately work through the implications of this statement.

“There is no better way to lose the sources of gossip I now have, than to snatch one of their Marshals in this fashion,” Mary said, “but Murat is not a man I can refuse. And Lady Hamilton has built grand schemes on that possibility; she sent me a very quarrelsome letter about it after I told her I would not be a party to adultery, however prettily it masqueraded as patriotism. Murat is married to Napoleon's sister. Should Murat take up an English mistress in defiance of this tie, Napoleon might be less inclined trust and then to best use a marshal so necessary to his plans.”

“Napoleon does not seem to highly value marital fidelity,” pointed out Tharkay. “It is equally likely they will find greater intimacy in shared secrets.”

“That is my fear,” said Mary. “One amongst many. I am so plagued with fears it is a wonder I could even ride out this morning. Should Murat ask and I refuse it is likely he will not hear it. I cannot speak to his character, but it is a common enough situation. Men of power hear what they like to hear. And Lady Hamilton has... implied that she will force my hand if I am not willing. So I suppose I have the answer to my problem. I will have my hand forced, and I will offend my conscience thereby, and feel ruined in a way I would not had I taken any other man in the world to my bed.”

Tharkay’s silence took on a militant aspect. He seemed really offended on her behalf.

Mary felt a confusion of feelings rushing about her-- fear and anger at Lady Hamilton, frustration at the dictates of those with power over her, in her behavior and choice of partner, a sudden stab of longing for Tharkay, who felt as he ought and consulted her before making decisions-- and abruptly stood. She paced about the room, unable to speak. “I hate to be forced into anything,” she ended up saying. “Hate isn’t a strong enough word. I-- ha! Perhaps I am wild, but at least then I may answer to my conscience.”

“I have often thought,” said Tharkay, “that it is better to be a savage, than to engage in all the particularly despicable acts demanded of one by civilized society.”

Mary felt a sudden surge of great affection for Tharkay. “I’m tired of Murat. He may go to hell. I quite wish he would. There are many men I like better. It is a pity,” said she, dropping her gaze to the floor and then slowly sweeping it up to Tharkay, “that civilized people would not urge me to act on that instead.”

Tharkay had been looking absent-mindedly at the kestrel, but then turned to look at her, expression obscured by the flickering firelight.

It was enough to go on. Mary felt willful and reckless. “It is enough,” she continued on, drawing closer to him, “to make one question society at large. Why should I do as bid? Acting as they please would offend me, and acting as I please would offend them. One or the other of us is wrong. Perhaps it is egotism, but I cannot think it myself.”

“Oh?” asked Tharkay. He seemed fascinated with her, despite himself.

“Quite, Captain Tharkay,” said Mary, trailing her ungloved hand over the back of his chair. The movement of her hand stirred the short hairs on the back of his neck. “Perhaps I shall act horribly uncivilized. it would give me a great deal of pleasure. Would it please you, sir?”

“Miss Crawford,” said Tharkay, amused, “are you seducing me?”

“Is it so apparent?” asked Mary, arm outstretched, only the tips of her fingers resting on the corner of the chairback. She lowered her eyes in false modesty as Tharkay turned and raised his eyes to her face.

“You forget that you revealed all your techniques to me not two days past.”

Mary slowly raised her eyes to meet his, a hint of a smile playing round her lips, and said in low, appealing tones, “And what do you think of their efficacy, sir?”

Tharkay did not immediately answer her. When he spoke, he deflected her question. “Why are you doing this?”

Mary could not immediately answer him. The truth was painfully lodged in her throat, and she thought she might choke on it. She turned her eyes to the ground once again and felt heat creep across her cheek.

“Merely to see if you were as good as you thought yourself to be?” asked Tharkay with almost... bitterness?

Mary deflected with, “I am not good at all, Captain Tharkay.” Then, because she had no quip prepared, and found herself incapable of an insouciant laugh or a languid glance, she forced out, “It is-- it is because...” She cleared her throat. “It is because I trust you, Captain Tharkay. You are not the sort of man who talks, and you have an active kindness that I find appealing. Your humor matches my own. In short, I like you. And I do not want. I do not wish....” Mary found herself perilously close to tears. She glanced away entirely as she said, “I have very few illusions-- about the world, certainly, and about myself, nearly certainly. But I had not thought myself the sort of woman to ruin myself for an enemy of my country, at the insistence of Lady Hamilton. I should much rather prefer to ruin myself for her plans by gratifying my own wishes.”

Tharkay shifted in his chair. Perhaps he was looking at her, perhaps he was prepared to flee from so awkward and painful a confession. Mary refused to look and determine which it was. She instead kept her gaze fix’d upon the logs burning in the fireplace and laughed bitterly. “How sordid! It has the air of a madam providing a new girl for her client. I was always vaguely aware of the transactional nature of marriage, and once in society, I picked up easily enough all the other implications of this fact, but I am not without resources. I am an heiress. I have a little independence, and more liberty than most women. I did not think my hand would ever be-- it seemed to me better to go into it knowingly--” nothing quite got at the shame and terror mingled, the fine coating of anger that broke off into sharp splinters of spite “--I meant to sell myself high, if I ever had to sell myself. But I am not even doing the selling, I am being sold.”

A touch on her fingertips; Tharkay had stood and placed his hand over hers.

Mary took a deep, shuddering breath. The heat of his hand on hers was the pleasantest shock she had experienced in a very long time.

“I would much rather give myself to some friend, and accept my ruin as my own choice,” said she, very conscious that Tharkay had risen to stand before her, “than to see myself forced and powerless, a low creature incapable of directing her own destiny, who has lost, even after all her stratagems and strivings.”

A touch on her chin; Mary automatically looked up, opening her eyes.

Tharkay was not as unaffected as she had earlier believed. He searched her face keenly, one hand on hers, the over hovering near to her chin and cheek, his breathing rapid and uneven. Quietly, but intensely, he said, “You may regret this, Mary, in the light of cold prudence.”

“No cold prudence for me.” She had said something similar to Edmund Bertram (or perhaps in his hearing? her memories of Mansfield were now all muddled). “That is not true. I have made a good spy. A cold-blooded calculation is required there. What I am asking of you is hot-blooded foolishness. I had rather not mix it up in my spying. I can well understand if you deny me, but--”

She pressed closer and looked up into Tharkay’s lean, handsome face. Mary could feel the heat of his body and still she shivered. “But I cannot think of any reason,” said she with forced calm, though her pulse thundered in her throat, “why I should.”

“If none of the negative consequences you fear come to pass--”

“Well then, I shall merely be as bad as everyone fears I am,” said Mary, turning her head slightly, so that Tharkay’s fingertips rested on her cheek. His other hand came, almost unconsciously, to her waist. “And I shall enjoy myself hugely. But I see no reason why anything really bad should happen to either of us, provided we are careful, and do not ask for more than the other can give. Unless I have utterly mistaken you, you would not talk--”

“No,” agreed Tharkay, his hand wandering from her cheek into her dark hair. He inhaled sharply, and then let out an oddly breathless laugh. “If you are sure?”

Mary smiled. “Yes.”


End file.
